Whispers that may die
for the sake of fancy noise
weren't born so weak.

they once were songs
memorials of the truths
that wise couldn't speak.

Shouldn't the stars be blamed
and the roses, and the coasts?
Why aren't the poems of great love
and tales of severe gallantry
locked in a distant vault?

Where no soul with surging youth
no child with raw ambitions
can reach or see them.

For they allow lethal hopes
give misplaced illusions.
Amuse a few passing breaths
and mock for a lifetime.

It might be warmth
buried deep into the winters.
or the last azalea
standing against the autumn.

Might be a rare constellation
seen by hopeless drunk lovers
or the sight of an oasis
to a lost drowsy caravan.

Hope can be fragile
yet it won't be nulled.
It won't be lost.