Hope

Hope, they say,

as if it’s a word lightly held—

a thing you should carry,

a flame you should tend.

But hope is a fort,

you and I,

architects of its fragile walls.

We have built it,

and watched it fall,

built it,

and watched it fall again.

Every time.

Before we met,

before we spoke,

before we agreed,

before we tried.

Every time,

we carried it—

delicate, stubborn—

like an unspoken promise

bound to our dreams.

We measured it carefully,

love poured in drops,

care folded in whispers.

We planned it,

mapped its foundation,

gave it all we had—

our energy, our passion,

our eternal wishes.

And every time,

we built it anew,

like the small, innocent hands

of a girl on a crescent beach,

shaping sand into castles—

dreams speckled with shells,

coloured by fantasies

and the tales of her search.

How beautiful it was.

Every time,

a shape rose,

delicate as morning light.

And yet,

always,

there came a wave

bearing the name of fate.

What does it leave behind?

Glass scattered,

the shadow of an almost-dream,

a story unfinished.

Now, you and I,

we hold something quieter—

a hope for hope,

a whisper for a clue,

a search for life’s hidden map.

And so,

perhaps, we will build again.

For the request of my friend 

Sikaran

08 12 24