Hope unfolds, a wrinkle in time,
boutonniere in a funeral pocket.
It whispers to the weary
when gale-force winds shout,
yet its stir conquers kingdoms
and uproots emperors,
one pale pink petal at a
time. Hope is one drop
of one wave of one ocean,
yet it carves out its allotment
of the shoreline with a steady
hand. It dares to grasp the moon,
sleep with stars, paint the
Sistine Chapel, bow at the throne
of heaven, bloom on a cursed earth.
Hope is the candle in the window
to call its sons home…

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