A figure slumped beside the road,
a heap of ash and thread.
No face, no shape, just heavy cloth,
and eyes that looked half-dead.

“Who are you?” asked the wrinkled one,
with voice both calm and kind.
“I’m Sadness,” said the shape, half-formed,
“the one all try to bind.”

“They turn from me,” the figure said,
“as if I bring disease.
They smile too wide, deny the weight,
pretending they find peace.

They say, ‘Be strong, the world is good,’
and laugh until it aches.
They drink, distract, and hold it in—
but something always breaks.

They claim that tears show weakness now,
that sorrow has no place.
They guard their hearts with empty words
and hide behind a face.

But I was made to offer pause,
to clear the cluttered day.
I build a place where pain can speak,
then gently fade away.

I help them find what they forgot—
the child who still feels small,
whose silent grief was never named,
whose back still bears it all.”

The old one nodded, took her time,
and sat upon the stone.
She didn’t flinch or turn away,
but made the cold her own.

She touched the folds of muted gray
with fingers soft and torn.
And Sadness wept without restraint,
for once not judged or worn.

Then slowly came a steadier breath,
and posture less resigned.
“You sit with me—but who are you?
What name should I now find?”

“I’m Hope. I do not promise cures.
I do not wear a crown.
But I will sit with you awhile
and help you not fall down.”