Cyclical Hope

She found that ageless tongue

That bleeds dry the blue veins

Of philosophic beings,

Witnessing yet again the old

Becoming young.

The tongue that once cried out,

Calling for change amid constancy,

Disquiet in complacency,

Whilst grasping hidden truths

Known only above.

The tongue to run the centuries

Backwards toward universal emotion.

Speaking unto stone hearts

She reveals the wrongs of man

Nursing his injuries.

To sit a moment at her torn side

Is a new kind of holy confessional.

The mind remembers those

Legacies recreated in the dust

We fought to hide.