Sprout from the ashes, from the flame-torn ground
Reach for the sunlight; now the Earth has gone 'round.
Without a soul present--all chased from the war--
Nature (in silence) sweeps its paintbrush once more.

And up from between every charred, brittle patch,
Life lifts a feeble finger, its children to hatch.
One by one they creep up from under the soil,
Unknowing though they are of the anguished ground's toil.

Unclasped the hands blossom in the glorious light;
Warm is the air at the parting of the night.
Gentle, unhurried: a melody without sound.
Sprout from the ashes, from the flame-torn ground.