"How is your hope?" have you ever given your heart a little time to answer this question? Hope needs a little bit of your heart and a little bit of you!

My hope is like that miscarried embryo whom the mother still can't forget. It keeps visiting the mother's heart every day, filling her void with its unsung cries .

My hope lives on every crease of the churni which the child wraps like saree and brings the texture of her mother's palms to those creases.

My hope remains in that graveyard that died with a living soul trapped in it, for breathing seemed a curse to his lover.

My hope is in between the bindings of every empty notebook, where lives a sweet snippet of comfort.

My hope breathes on those new writing ideas, which run like a toddler before I could even grasp them on my compose section.

My hope is too innocent to understand that humans too create portholes in their hearts, where tears accumulate, creating a breeding place for grief.

My hope can make light pass through the mud stuck nails. It can make opaque objects to see and experience light.

Maybe my hope is hopeless.

Maybe, it is because if I have hope, hopelessness is a part of it. Isn't it the same as life and death? We've never signed up for death, but indeed life came into our inboxes, and we decided to fill it. So now we have to wait till the time comes to click the submit button.

I love being hopeless. At least at that time, I can find the beauty of black because it deserves a chance, too.

However, I try answering the question with detailed points, my heart always wants to answer it in two lines:

My hope is immortal. It has died so many deaths, only to return to me like the previous one.

Now, you take your hands together and wrap it around your heart, feel the way it calls you, feel the way it talks to you like the ABAB rhyming scheme you use in your poetry and then ask it the question and the answer will follow!