The park is calm in evening’s dim light,
I stood arms outstretched, “Hope has not flown away!” I cry.
A tear’s cool shadowy finger traced a woman’s cheek, as she inhaled my glee.
She smiled and three rang with laughter.
Said the old man, “Best judge of a person’s character, is their hope.”
We danced then beneath the hearty elms, the woman, the old man, and I.
Others stopped and those who understood joined our dance.
Happy spirits elated in creation, as all sang discordant melodies with no words.
