At its beginning the day cries. Tears form beads on grass blades, hang from the webs of spiders and drench windscreens.
Hope crawls reluctantly to its feet, stumbling over aching hills to dry the pre dawn tears in a much loathed routine. There must be a purpose to this, things have to change.
Exhausted from the outset, hope cannot withstand evening. The day cries again at the coming of the dark.
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