Hope

hope

Hope is an oil lamp cupped in wavering palms,
Its wick steady though the monsoon tests the flame.
It calls like a cuckoo in rain-dark fields,
Singing without waiting for the moon.

It moves ahead like jasmine before the flower opens,
Trusting fragrance long before the white appears.
When time pauses between one breath and the next,
And the world forgets how to finish its prayer,

Hope rises like a myna on an unfinished dawn,
Lending its voice to the waiting horizon.