They claim that hope is gentle—
a mere whisper carried by the breeze,
a fine thread of spider silk
glimmering in the golden light.
But no—
Hope is not a feather, nor a fragile wish
tied to the distant stars.
Hope is a warrior—
her knuckles split and scarred,
the metallic tang of iron on her lips
as she spits out the dust
from yet another fallen battle.
Her hair is tangled with cobblestones,
her dress stitched with threads of resolve
ripped from streets
where shadows linger.
Her hands bear the weight of earth,
not the sweet scent of spring’s blossoms,
but the raw aroma of sweat,
of battles waged long ago
beneath an indifferent sky.
She stands bloodied and bruised,
yet her gaze blazes
with an undying fire.
They insist hope is fleeting,
a fragile flicker of a candle,
but no—
Hope is the stubborn root
that shatters stone,
the unyielding howl of wind,
the relentless beat
in a weary heart.
Hope is the roar in the void,
the hands that cling to the edge
of an infinite abyss.
She rises from the dust,
spits blood to the earth,
and with a fierce grin,
steps forward once again.
For hope is not the timid muse
we thought we knew—
she is the warrior queen
who will not bow,
will not break,
will not be subdued.