I never met She Who Sang Its Song, but I know Her still, because Her notes echo into eternity. Hope lives, in every birth, every sprouting seed, every rotting log and passing spring. Hope lives in the ancient and unbroken promise: Winter must come, but so too must Spring follow. All things that live must someday die, but all death must yield to the resurgence of Life.

Hope lives. In the beating heart of every living thing of this world, in the smaller, harder to spot lives of those things that grow and die with the seasons. Hope lives, in the deafening drumbeats of the rythm, in the turn of the seaons, in the set and rise of the sun, in rain and drought and storm and fair winds. Hope -lives-. If its song has become difficult for you to hear, find me. Find me, if you Live, and I will help you hear its notes again.

Hope lives, Sapience, and Despair has no power to slay it.

Penned by my hand on Quensday, the 16th of Variach, in the year 504 MA.