The burnt meadows they lie so still,
Uttering a prayer alike the fallen woods.
In winter, they yearn a revelling death,
As shadows dust with cold.
Oh lord! They say, play hope no more,
Let cease the trivial life,
The tears they heal the cradle’s pine.
Christ be born, let incendie,
For sans virgin, it never plies.
It’s no mercy but whelming ail
Yet let the heavens gloam;
For when the winter comes and ashes dust;
Let the phoenix rise.