Artwork: Cathy Brett
Defeated, bloodied, fallen A failure’s eyes; dry Life’s rendered us downtrodden No reason to smile… or cry. Laughter’s all but gone, And memories live; all patches Of dreams that nested upon A tree now down to ashes. Tears back—yet to roll Down our smothered faces Mourning a dear, dead goal Must leave behind its traces. Darkness’s all about And nowhere a friend, nor foe; Not a soul to dispel doubt Oh, destined where to go? Time hath come to still In its face we pass instead. We must pass, we will; Who could bring back the dead? But there’s a little one in there, Some call it hope; some, tiny light. He joins us at each prayer, Mourns he but not one lost fight. He hath those slave-eyes not To see his body in terror quail, To witness dear dreams rot, Nor ears to sense his spirits’ wail. A little warrior that he is, Wearing a fearless smile, that child Hope his name, and nature, bliss Is heedless to the world out, wild. Wills us, seem foul times fair, That we may fight back, unto our death! Lights us bright, us souls in despair, That we may see hope at each breath!
