Palms rustle like whispers of hope in dry wind, waved by hands that know both praise and pain—children’s voices echo hosannas down dust-veiled roads where ancient stones remember every footstep, every march.
A king once rode humbly, not with might but with mercy, through crowds hungry for salvation, their cloaks a patchwork of longing.
Today, branches lift again, fragile as breath, defiant as faith, held by those whose days bloom with thorns, who still dream of peace beneath olive trees and broken skies.
Blessed is the one who comes, they chant—not in triumph, but in peace.
Paintings: Karla Little, and Mary Hale on Pinterest
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