How do I believe in life, in the face of death?
How do I practice hospitality while I am in self-preservation mode?
How do I share when there is a fear of scarcity?
How do I hope when the future seems so bleak?
What do I hold onto when there seems to be no cure, no solution?
When I give up all hope, what do I have left?
What is life without this frail shoot called “faith for a better tomorrow”?
“It shall be well,” I tell myself despite the darkness that has descended upon me.
I hold onto the dying embers of my former existence.
I grab hope with trembling, worn-out hands.
“All will be well,” I shout to my haggard, fear-stricken soul.
I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will rise again.
We will rise again like the phoenix.
Tomorrow it shall be well; this is my hope.
It is the spring rain that waters the dry, parched, tormented mind of mine.