Hope – the wings that see through any darkness, any wall.

We are destined to be roots, trunks, branches, and wings. When flying is out of reach, we are two hands of dirt closer to infinity.

If someone holds by mistake a piece of hope, there is always someone else to make it disappear.

There is a moment of birth, of living and of death in any hope.

Each morning, on the reality tree's branch towards the people, I listen to the bird of hope.

Light comes always from the past; the hope remains the attribute of the future.