SICHTWEISEN

Hope is a tattered Flag
by Carl Sandburg


Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time.

Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadow in white

The evening star inviolable over the coal mines,

The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night,

The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works,

The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace,

The ten-cent crocos bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom,

The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket,

The kiss and the conforting laugh and resolve –

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.

The spring grass showing itself where least expected.

The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky,

The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow,

Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried

Across the sea in behalf of a world family nations

And children singing chorals of the Christ child

And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

And tall skysrapers practically empty of tenants

And the hands of strong men groping fro handholds

And the Salvation Army singing God loves us…..