I write in guilt from the comfort of my home as the olive trees are forcibly soaked in the taste of blood, the roots are grounded with strong faith in God though I’m shaking in doubt of hope’s existence.
The soil is embracing those roots with its motherly instinct, promising growth amidst the chaos. The winds are whispering in despair as hope finds its way through the dry cracks of mud, like a wanderer seeking light in the darkest of nights. midway the uncertainty, hope rises like a phoenix from the ashes, igniting a flame that cannot be tamed. the spark in the eyes of the weary has faded away as the days went by
Yet, the resilience continues in the hearts of those oppressed. As the branches tremble and the leaves fall, hope is unwavering, rooted deep within the betraying earth. it’s their belief that tomorrow holds a promise, and that justice will prevail. So I write, not in spite of the darkness, but because of it. for in the depths of this occupancy, hope shines brightest, illuminating the path forward with its certain faith in God. So as long as my heart pumps its blood and there’s ink in my pen, I will continue to write of hope, I will continue to write to the
leaves of this olive tree as it drinks the blood yet, never forgets nor forgives.