Pandora, according to the story, undone by her own curiosity, found Hope at the bottom of that fatal basket. Hope had wings, sequins, sang and was more or less green. About nine inches high, she spat tobacco juice when you squeezed her tummy. She had enormous peeperss that seemed to peer in all directions at once.
'Hi', she said, sticking her hand out to Pandora, 'I'm Hope. Pleased to meetcha'.
Taken back, Pandora shook her hand, anyway, not wanting to seem stuck-up.
'Pleased to meet you', said Pandora, politely. She came to put alot of stock in Hope.
'See you later', said Hope, suddenly taking wing.
'Wait- where are you going? We just met'. '
'Not to worry. I'll be back.'
But Hope was not the last to emerge from the basket. The myth was wrong as myths can be and completely opposed to reality, which is never wrong, though...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem