“The Well of Hope”

 

“The Well of Hope”

Beneath the oak where shadows dwell,

There lies a quiet wishing well.

No sign, no fame, no grand display—

Just moss and stone and dreamers' clay.

They come with whispers, not with gold,

With hands that tremble, hearts grown old.

And drop, not coins, but silent prayers

That hang like starlight in the air.

No magic tricks, no wish guaranteed,

But something stirs for those in need—

A hush, a warmth, a breath drawn deep,

A place where sorrow comes to sleep.

The well, you see, does not grant fate,

But listens long, and holds the weight.

It gathers hope in every seam

And offers back a softer dream.

For what it gives is not what's wished,

But something steady, real, and rich—

The strength to stand, to love, to try,

To face the wind and still ask why.

So if you pass that ancient tree,

And find the stone well silently,

Don’t toss a coin—just pause, and feel

The quiet truth: that hope is real.