This is what hope looks like, two wee cinnamon dots clutching mom’s hand tight, peering out at the wide, wide world through childish curtseys and wonder, not stopping to think about white hooded badmen now drowning in shame. This is what hope looks like, when fury has been faced down, blinded by the simplest truth: the people have decided what really makes us great, and it’s open arms and love, not pitchforks and hate. This is what hope looks like. It’s care for the weak, a hand for the hopeless, dignity for the different, better days for the broken. Hope is on friendly terms with Woody Guthrie tunes, its tones, soft as the plains, watered by the gentle rain sing of there always being room for another voice. It says all songs are now welcome, this choir being under new management. Harry Gallagher
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