Like death and birth,
Hope is deaf and dumb;
To human machinations numb,
A feathered beast devoid of mirth.
With Her wings she soars,
Higher than history had ever flown,
Laden with promise of a reaping ne’er sown,
Eclipsing the secret doubts at all our cores.
In Her shadow,
The world conveniently pauses,
With You in control of the world and her causes:
Life repainted with a freshened glow.
Inevitably, the albatross will come to pass,
Carrying away Her blanket of certainty,
Leaving in it’s wake, certainly,
Our unhidden fears revealed en masse.
To the passed shadow the holy men stay clinging,
Desperate as they are to ignore their presents,
They seek to deny their soul’s very presence,
You will hear them joyfully singing:
“‘Tis better to dream of destined ‘me’.
Liberated from the curse of choice,
Than to silence in my heart Her voice,
Damning me to be free.”