There will be spring to the very end
I'll sleep to the sound of burning winter
Place for me built, and for my friends
By which will pass each on his venture
My father's house is gone
And all the houses in his town have crumbled
I am a child, ten inches tall
And I have grown while they have stumbled
And what will be ours to do today
Is to name everything we see
After what we are and who came before
And the things that run in fear from you and me