Hope

Hope is a green vine,

climbing the walls of the forgotten,

its tendrils reaching for the sun

even in the hour of shadows.

It does not ask permission—

it grows, it persists,

it wraps itself around the ruins

and whispers, “Me Voici”

 

Hope is the sea,

vast and untamed,

its salt on your lips,

its rhythm in your chest.

It does not sleep

it rises, it falls,

it carries you even when

you cannot see the shore.

 

Hope is the bread

broken in the darkest hour,

the warmth of shared hands,

the taste of something

that will not let you starve.

It does not explain

it feeds, it sustains,

it says, Come, eat,

there is enough for everyone.

 

Hope is the bird

that sings at the edge of dawn,

its song a thread

stitching the torn sky.

It does not falter

it calls, it rises,

it reminds you

that the night is not eternal.

Hope is the hand

you did not expect to hold yours,

the voice that says your name

when the silence is too loud.

It does not abandon

it stays, it breathes,

it says, You are not alone,

you were never alone.

 

Hope is the fire

that burns in the marrow of the world,

the quiet flame

that refuses to be extinguished.

It does not beg

it burns, it glows,

it says, Here, take this light,

carry it with you,

and do not be afraid.