If we could walk every day,
As men with a hope for something better,
Then better we would be.
And the best would surely come.
And even when it doesn't,
That ethereal bliss of expectancy
Would gracefully soothe our souls;
Frail as it may be, we would find peace.
For hope is nothing but a chance; a will;
A solemn prayer;
One with which we hold dear to our beliefs.
Hope is that little voice we pray to hear,
Deep in the depths of our despair;
Lodged firmly in the corners of our hearts,
It is that musical symphony that never parts.
If we should be thankful for anything,
Then the glorious myth ‘hope' ought to be one.
Cos many and lots have been saved,
And all these because of a myth that told them to hold on.
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