What stays around and leaves, Without a trace of peace Holds the most hearts; my heart believes A shred of honour and then, I cease To be, the one mortified with ease. Melancholia prevails, a quiddity unfathomable; strikes fear. Fear -- a hammer-- strikes cold on hot rod; shapes The anger, despicable, Engraves the pain -- unbearable-- slaves With labours -- unattainable. And yet what leaves a mark - is hope. Hope, lodestar for the sad of soul, A jaunty sultan for the desolate vagabond Answers the grievances of those who call To raise the sun-- bring the dawn. Hope --is satiety; exigent, is love. Love -- Well, love is what stays around And leaves. And the cycle continues.