a hope in my heart

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

here, ambition is worn thin
by repetition and grief.
but still they cling to the air
threads of gold stubborn enough
to weave themselves into tomorrow.

and though the city walks with ghosts
though its rivers remember every sorrow
hope keeps planting itself
in the places no one thinks to look:
a child’s laughter skipping over stone,
a lantern lit for no reason at all,
a name spoken gently
when the night is cold.

in my heart, hope is not a gift.
it is a choice—
the trembling decision
to lift one’s gaze
toward whatever light remains,
and believe
that even a wounded world
can turn its face
to dawn.