Hope is alive even though She is dead.
It's no contradiction, if you comprehend
She's everything, everywhere, cyclical, vast;
She stretches as far into future as past.

It's easy in winter to claim, 'Hope has fled.'
You can hear it from frauds, demagogues, walking dead...
Belying their talk, if fond Hope were long gone,
they wouldn't protest near as loud if they'd won!

Despair's in the air when all's gloomy and grey
but make no mistake, spring is coming to say
that the world can have color and glory and joy
despite despair's dedicates playing such ploys!

A seed is a seed is a seed, Praadi sing
which grows to the tree from which birds first take wing
and the spring, yes the spring, she is coming to say
that the night need not rob the frail coattails of day.

She is here in the world. She is here in the plants.
She is here in the oceans, their deep, vast expanse.
She is here every time Boube yips oh so proud-
do not say Hope is dead.
She is here.
She sings loud.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 9th of Ios, in the year 6 AC.