In one universe, despair repeats,
the same old speech with nothing new.
In another, we laugh at its persistence—
not because it is small,
but because we are still here.

The room was quiet after the storm,
chairs overturned, papers scattered.
We gathered what was left,
not to restore the old order,
but to prove we could stand again
among the ruins of yesterday.

Hope is not a banner,
not a sermon,
just the stubborn act
of moving forward.

The road bent out of sight,
its gravel biting at our shoes.
We did not know what waited ahead,
only that each step
was already a refusal
to stay where we had fallen.

So, we step,
out of the echo,
into another place,
where even tired steps
make their own truth.

Our feet dragged,
but the dust they raised
was proof of movement.

Even weariness has a rhythm,
a slow drumbeat
that carries us forward
when nothing else will.











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