HOPE
at winter when the
dry sand hoped it
doesn't rain at all,the
cloud unleashed its spit

at summer when the
wet leaves felt the
caress of the dew,the
sun shined so blue

at fog when the
unseen space thought
it could hide,the
harmattan haze let it out

early at the desert side
where the gold sand
felt dry and cool,the
mirage lingers aright

to my hopers around
though we live on it
hope is a trailing tragedy
for on its rope one only dares to die

The irony of life lays on the fact that while even on death bed we crave to hope,
we have been slaves to hope so to say but that doesnt mean you shouldnt hope.
DARE TO HOPE

Hope.
Isn't it what we alll need?
A great work there, thanks