The Flames of Rebirth

When I woke that fated day,

It was with disbelief, with terror, with sorrow.

In my heart, that sprite of Hope ceased its dance,

Fell still and stared disbelieving through my eyes;

Our great nation,

Our immovable world,

Was suddenly in peril.

Hope is however, not the "thing with feathers" that Dickinson claimed;

It is a flame that warms, that soothes,

That sears.

As time passed, hope rekindled,

Glowed brightly,

Fiercely,

Dangerously.

It warmed me, and I clutched tight its heat in trembling hands.

But it was not to last.

Again, again, again the world crushed that weak hope,

And now I feel it dying again.

Yet one thing rekindles it,

One thought keeps it strong:

No matter how cruel or unjust the world becomes,

It is still my home,

And I cannot abandon it.