Once day I sat with a crying kid at a train station, I read to him the story that Emily Dickinson made, about hope, trying to help this person;
"'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops — at all —
And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I've heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me."
To which the kid with the seasoned soul replied to me:
"Hope has flew from me —
Though I am not the cause —
Hope has flown away from those —
who cause me harm
Sore was the storm —
That did abash me —
And scare off that little bird
Still I go and try to find —
Storm came from a place I knew —
Why is learning so hard —
I know now why the caged bird sings —
She was taken from me —
I was on the chillest land —
Was on the strangest sea —
Even left the crumbs out —
Yet, it never returned to me."
It was then he rose with a grin and thanked me, just in time for the train to go through him, and his hope forever no more.
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