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 crouches breeding in dark corners.
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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