In this austere and lovely space,
Where the kindly dust
Of close-lived hours falls gently down,
Where memory plays its own cantata
In each one of us,
Song pours out,
Raining down the paved streets and concrete
Drenching the waiting, watchful towns
Until they flower,
Rooting themselves in a torrent of melody.
Living proof that hope can never be extinguished,
That gaiety and gladness will blossom
Over and over again.
© Gwen Grant