Hope descends like a dark bird and settles in the heart,
Weaving itself a nest of human fibers:
Blood and love, belief and trust, the birth pangs
There it sits in silence.
The dark bird has no song; only its feathers rustle,
Occasionally, recalling its secret presence.
Faith is a white light and charity a flame.
Both are entirely palpable, visible.
Hope is a shy creature; it camouflages itself
In the currents of desire.
It can only be detected in a universal question
Murmured before the shadow of the future:
Can the end of this be joy?
Hope is the hardest of loves.
Its goal is far away and faint, a song
From another bird lost in the wind.
So easily a heart could dismiss the call:
The delusion of groundless optimism.
Yet in her nest the still, small bird
Broods over the certainty that the voice is true.
Faith ascends on snowy wings of a dove,
And charity is a phoenix reborn from ashes.
Before their splendor no one remembers
A simple sparrow.
Yet in the silence between breaths
She abides and whispers,
Every manner of thing will be well.