Hope drifts to the end of the cliff, and
hesitates
for a moment of deep breath, scraping it
all into his mind.
Then, waves carry the sun away; hide it
somewhere out of sight.
And, the quivering gleams surrender to
the darkness of night.
Soon, water washes the surface, and only
the moss lingers.
What about miracles, I say; what about
miracles?
Miracles happen, I say. I’d read it
somewhere once.
It was the story of the broken-winged
bird, healed with love.
Or was it that story, which ends with the
best ending ever?
Yes, it was the story of the boy, who
caught the comet from his tail,
And stuck it right back with the wishes
that won’t ever glide away.
All the huddle in a hospital wing, hiding
their wet eyes from me.
None knows the broken-winged bird, now galloping
at the sky.
The stories once they believed, buried
deep inside their mossy hearts.
How can they believe without any light
clearing their blurry sights?
Soon, the wavering lines of the gray old
machine smoothes its way.
Beeps end, and miracles can't help,
anymore.
What happens then, when miracles can't
help?
Do the eyes stay full, or do they dry out
within time,
And brighten with another light, replaced
with hope?
What can it be? What can tie our dry
souls to life,
At the times, when miracles don’t apply?
