And together we died
but in a language of mistrust
and misconceptions, we merely passed,
forgotten in the blink
of a hurricane’s eye.
Our eyes, however, were black
as coal on a fire yet to burn,
and together we died.

Our mother tongue is pessimism,
and our word of the day is “hope”;
I hope so; I do hope so; I really do hope so.
Mother never spoke like this.
She had such a way
with words; they were
paints of different hues
to be caressed on to the canvas
of our lives and cherished.

Now we have hope.

We tried to take a step
fourward, but we took twoback,
never realising the scenery
was going the wrong way.
Tunnel vision in the wide open.

We hung flags from balconies
and sang songs of patriotism
and heroism and ism-ism;
so many –isms.
And together we died.

One word is spoken here,
one word is our gospel
and our saviour.
Just bloody hope.