Where do the beasts of the wood go at night?
Where are the birds' songs on a winter day?
The sinister floods have swept all from sight;
The squirrels no longer come out to play.
But a song still echoes among the hills,
not to be quelled by the tempest and floods:
a song of life wrought from tears and strong wills.
The blackbird still sings, in spite of the blood.
The hail has fallen and severed their rope,
trees and bushes have been ripped from the ground.
The wolves prance and sing because they have hope -
in spite of the fear and wreckage around.
This lesson I've learned through calm, and through strife:
though storms may rage, there will always be life.

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