The mid of winter, numb and cold.
The icy splinter, black with mold.
With stains of red upon its stem,
like liquid rubies, honeyed gems.

In time the young ones will be heard,
the golden windchime, sweet as birds.
Know not the dreadful sound of guns,
nor the heat of a thousand suns.

The crimson leaves turn dry and brown,
upon this death we do not frown,
for it is beauty in its own,
the blurry colors, all but bone.

And soon the young ones will be wise,
and know to stifle all their cries,
as doves fly in from burning west,
and all their screams are put to rest.