For the Old, To the New

But your hands remind me of hope;
That maybe I may grasp them, and take yours as my own.
And our wings are made of trust;
but the wind has gone, so the birds have flown. 
Alas, our love is the sieve of laughter.
Between the way that we live, 
Your spirit is what I am still after. 
Guide that inspired this poem: 


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