Progressive Circle

Hope, an unseen angel,
Despair, an unseen demon.
Hand in hand, do they walk,
Playing “in your shoes”, once every walk.

Martyrs are born, every waking dawn,
Some irrevocably, some circumstantially.
Sacrifice, should one say that,
Is it not a mere act of compassion?

Rumbles all round, scary and dark,
I see a tree shrivel, in the storm,
Strike of a lightning, and the tether broken.

Time moves on,
A tiny leaf sprouts,
And springs a tiny hope in despair,
Yet a hope that it might grow into a tree it once was!