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
