I wish to say as the dear lay in despair
How most of our daily efforts are spent
In the process of losing sight. It may well
Be that I am confusing a spectrum
Of human lot, at one end the poor focusing
On the needs, and at another the wealthy
Growing used to everything. But as the loved
Ones impose in the conversation the prospect
Of its abrupt conclusion, I should also
Conjure the instruments of men required
For perfect vision.
There is a contraption we call hope, it is
Not entirely obvious we should admit its
Instinctive nature : I believe it was earned
In danger and belongs to the conspiracy which
Forms in the face of despair. Pain may be
The greatest obscurer and led some to want
No more of a diminished life : she asked
For relief in a form we could not accord.
We dealt only with the pain, until it was
A memory of it and proceeded to open
Our eyes on what led us all.
Hope. Not hers’ in tatters,
But ours’, the common good
Belonging to the tribe. And we would not
Let go of her, because there still was hope
Among us like a integer sum.
For the same reason that its contested
Ownership, hope cannot be separated
From love ; and the object of love
Be left alone to its own volition, once it dealt
With the life of others, either by birth or choice.
There is a tragedy and it was always there,
In the face of the mother and that of the father,
That of the spouse and that of the son,
That of the brother and that of the sister,
It was hope shared between commoners
Leaning on indifferent fences.
It was, the possibility of not being alone.
Image credit : Peggy Sirota