LIFE-HOPE

Awake at last, he stands
Face to face with the day,
Which reaches through an air
Quick to offer him
The morning: always unknown,
Never neutral, perhaps
Murky or only half
Clear but—ceaselessly—
An atmosphere that lungs
And soul breathe without
Distinguishing between
The air and that substance
Diffused in it that is
Visible in the form
Of hope.
The wakened man
Who breathes so overflows
Inside himself with this
By nature that he knows
Nothing of it at all
And merely manages
To live, while moving from
One instant to the next,
For good or ill, and now
Awaits an imminent
Something disposed to be
Reality that will Incorporate itself
To the constant desire
Of a life that is life
Only out of hope.