it's only these crawling wights who garner and doubt hope;
stars, serene and proud, shine softly without hope.

each solitary bird sits perched atop a pole.
if any jostle, it were only to flout hope.

flowers planted at Auschwitz in the gayest hues
fade, are replaced; their raison d'être is to shout hope

i am the song, Graywyvern says, my black smoke flies
above the shattered town; it swells; it's not about hope