Hope is unusual
How it is so easy to grasp
But so difficult to hold onto
When it’s two in the morning and the only thing heard
Is the shattering of glass bottles and one’s heart
‘Is it naive?’ they ask. ‘To hope.’
But for what?
How does it stick to one’s mind and heart
When the clouds linger overhead
And black coats and umbrellas surround
Why does it stay when everything else leaves?