If hope was a feeling, what would it be?
The tingly sensation of a hot shower in the morning
The rush of the river as it makes its way to the sea
The fresh smell of nature when the rain comes down pouring
The sense of belonging one gets when with family

If hope could be done, what could we do?
Could we make it a beginning to our starlit dreams?
Could we sing it in the silence of our midnight blues?
Reminisce about it like childhood and vanilla ice-cream
Could we infuse it into the enigma of the sunset hues?

If hope is a noun, what should it be?
A chair whose existence is forever marked with burden
A beggar on the street with nothing to its name
Our food that has more without than within
If that was the case, then nothing would ever be the same

Hope is for everyone; why is it not free?
Why is it not as accessible as Mandela and Choice?
Why is it not distributed like poverty and disease?
Why is it that it turns our trust into toys while we wait for the winds of change so to freeze?

Then give it time; it will flourish like flowers on a field
Give it infinity like the grains of sand
Let it rise like the sun, prosperity of my people
…Yet it will still not be enough for this land

If hope has been anything man wanted it to be
Why is it nothing within me?