The winter bleak,
The branches bare,
And yet …
A freshness in the air.
The darkest night,
A baby’s cry —
The mother sings
Soft lullabies.
The concrete thick,
A barren waste.
And yet a flower
Grows up in haste.
The window cracked,
A heart in pain,
And yet love’s light
Will still sustain.
So weak, so lost,
By life so pained.
But hope, now dim,
Still grows again.
clarakatalin 
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