You watch the city serenely
crumble the binary
of Utopia and Dystopia,
and hear its humming
as you walk and weave
between all those faces.
It somehow smells of loving,
and loneliness, and loss.
All at once and not at all.
The Light at noon
is crisp, cold, cutting
through the smog.
You, still and silent,
notice the divinity
of traffic lights.
A breeze has wound
its way under your scarf
and clutches you by the neck.
A book is flung out
of a high building and caught
by a swooping bird.
You are both.
The language of hope is not a spoken one,
It cannot be bound in books or shaped with hands.
It is found in the small acts of resistance,
In seemingly unremarkable human traits
Like kindness, and solidarity, and joy.
The language of hope has never rippled delicately,
It rolls like thunder, roars in wonder.
Hope never cropped up easily.
You were there with me when the storm hit.
Here’s to hoping that it will clear the path to a new future.
It’s the only reason we’re still here
It’s breath after you’ve been choking in fear.
This poem is not me giving you permission,
It is a call to action in a time when all we need is
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