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