I grew where winter kissed the stone.
Where ancient pines stood all alone.
My mother sang beside the fire.
Her voice as warm as heart's desire.
My father spoke beneath the stars.
Of distant lands and ancient scars.
Stand like the oak against the rain.
For roots grow deep
Through years of pain.
Then darkness came on wings of fire.
And turned our dreams to a funeral pyre.
The heavens wept in crimson light.
As home became a ghost that night.
I watched the embers kiss the snow.
Like fallen stars that lost their glow.
Yet deep beneath the frozen ground.
A flame survived without a sound.