Ancient wounds,
still bleed,

though seasons creep quietly down,

the alleyways,
of the heart,

lost in the hint of a smile,

masking even,
the most tired frown.

Hope and comfort,
cling on, persistent,

offering solace,
to fractured souls,

the fragments strewn,
recklessly hither and thither,

though even beauty,
like the delicate petals,
of a solitary flower,

must wilt,
and eventually wither.

Ancient wounds,
may heal,

if only,
we stand and clasp,

on to hope and comfort,
lying within our grasp,

and for wounded hearts,
to heal,

we shall rise,

to face the onslaught,
of the tempests that blow,

enduring them,
with courage,

and never,
never to resign,

and never,
never to kneel