And every day, hope dies

Every day I hope anew
And every day it dies.

And from its dead body rises little hope again
Stretching its arms out,
Looking at the world,
Just busying itself in being,
In growing inch by inch.
Some days, it dies a slow death
Its frail roots desperately looking for hold
In sand devoid of food and water.
Other days, I rip it out with my own hands
From the ground it clung to;
As hope itself hopes to survive, to thrive.

Every day I hope anew
And every day, it dies.

From the fires that burned everything down
That reduced the world to smoke and ashes,
From the depths of that inferno
Hope lifted its charred hands,
Cradling within it a gentle spark,
A thing of warmth, of compassion.
An ember full of promises.
But my ice cold heart turned away from this affection.
My fingers closed around the pale light in a vice-like grip
And crushed it into pieces.
And I kept crushing until the ashes slipped through my fingers and fell to the ground.

Every day I hope anew,
And every day, it dies.

From within those ashes I heard a faint sound
A cry? A wail?
No, a chirp! The tiniest, littlest chirp.
The ashes moved ever so lightly,
From it emerged a wee little thing,
A creature with tiny little wings
Little legs, little feet, tottering towards me
“Cheep, Cheep, Cheep,” it said,
Its wings outstretched,
It’s eyes turned up to me.
I knelt down, my palms outstretched,
And it hopped on … unafraid,
Like it had found a place to belong.

Something stirred within me
A feeling long-forgotten; a feeling lost to time.
“Hold on to me,” whispered the little one into my ears
“Keep me within,” it said, as it nestled close to me.
“Believe,” it sang in a melody that travelled to my heart and made home there.

Every day I hope anew,
And some days, she lives.