In moments of bleak, smirk,
You wonder how it will work?
And of misery, roar,
Just like before it echoes,
Beneath the unrelenting night, dark,
However shall the light come through?
Lost in the cold of winter frost,
Where would the spring shoots emerge?
But hope is the pale moon hidden on a stormy night,
It is the stubborn grass that grows over and over again, despite being wretchously wrenched out,
It is rather hard to kill, Hope, for like the sun, She shines out, unabashedly and bright,
And in the morning light,
This hope sings so sweetly,
Of a future not bleak or cold,
But filled with joy and warmth,
And so it is,
Darkness will yield,
Winter will yield,
Grief will yield,
For spring is here,
And from the cold, emerges the pale shadow of new growth.

© Silvy Abraham