Springs forth a mighty totem
Against the soulless hatred
Screaming in the wilderness.
We know the hour’s growing late
Yet many songs remain unsung.
Now is not the time to hate
Too many bells remain unrung.
Outside, that world is growing dim
Darkness builds in gathering night,
Frigid wailing beyond the rim
Of this tiny candle’s light.
This little pool to which we cling,
This spot of warmth against the chill,
Where we await the return of spring
With nothing but our faith and will.
We can’t defeat that howling cold
Without this flame which we behold.
Upon the snowy
Moor, a lonely sentinel stands
Twisted by the wind
Too tall to be a shrubbery
Too gnarled to call a tree.