Hope is a thing without substance,
More fickle than one would think.
Yet around us it lives in abundance
Even when we are on the brink
Of death, with tears in our eyes,
We seem to find a way
To, without fail, give rise
to hope, which in our hearts will stay.
For hope may be without form,
And may seem to take leave at will,
Even in the darkest storm,
It will be in your heart until
You have nothing left to hope for