We Are the Knot

Borders dissolve where Alpine snow meets Aegean blue—
Lisbon loans sunlight to Helsinki’s dusk,
Sarajevo’s cafes brew Dublin’s rain,
and every train track hums the same chord:
“Alone, we’re notes. Together—anthem.”

Britain? Come home. Your island is a comma
in Europe’s run-on sentence. We’ve missed your verbs—
the “might” and “could” that once built bridges
from your chalk cliffs to our olive groves.

Kyiv’s sunflower fields tilt west, hungry for horizons,
Chișinău’s cellar wine now aged to courage—
but this isn’t expansion. It’s a family relearning
its hands: Vienna’s waltz, Sofia’s fire, Seville’s sweat.

Yesterday, a voice cracked across the Atlantic—
“Divide!” it barked. “Build moats, not doors!”
So we answered with Catalan sails patching Baltic storms,
Sicilian lemons sweetening Nordic frost,
Warsaw’s poets drafting stanzas for Madrid’s protests.
Disgrace dies where dialects braid.

Let historians squabble over maps. We’re too busy
rebuilding lighthouses in Reykjavik,
tuning Balkan guitars to Flemish folk songs,
planting vineyards along the Danube’s scar.
Moldova is here. Ukraine is already home.
Even Switzerland’s clocks now whisper, “Together. Together.”

We are the knot—not tied from above,
but woven by students swapping slang in Erasmus trains,
grandmothers trading recipes across the Pyrenees,
and every 12-year-old coding a future
where “EU” doesn’t mean bureaucracy…
just “Extra Us.”

P.S. For every kid who knows “union” isn’t a textbook word—
it’s the click when your puzzle piece finds its crowd.