It
is the Glad Season.
Hope
is born again in the faces of children
It
rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope
spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even
hate which couches breeding in dark corridors.
In
our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At
first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We
listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We
hear a sweetness.
The
word is Peace.
It
is loud now.
Louder
than the explosion of bombs.
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