Tiny trickle through the cracks,
dammed-up flood that daylight lacks,
the way so long, the hope so dim,
the fish without the nerve to swim.
The rising flood would break the wall,
the tiny nothing would be all,
the dying glimmer would be light
and flow reflected through the night.
But how to hope enough to strive,
to stifle doubt and keep alive,
to burst the gates and smooth the stones
when hateful dullness fills the bones?
Hear it calling, calling, calling,
tomorrow’s hope is this day’s crawling.
The deepest night gives way to day,
and quiet light will find its way.
The rosy dawn will burst at last,
this blocking dam will be the past;
remember that you’ve come this far
all guided by a distant star.
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