Remnants of beauty; shards of dreams,
Drifting endlessly down distant streams.
She cried out with no avail;
Her tears and sorrow then set sail
Under a weeping moon,
She cries out for her loved one.
I am the mountain; a King of old,
A snowy cell where dying flowers grow.
Look to me when skies are burning;
I am the call of constant yearning!
The rose which she seeks,
Only blooms in midwinter.
I am the ancient God of loss and despair,
Too old and proud to lend a caring hand.
"A child's life rests in my hands;
Where to turn, where to hide?
The mother will never rest,
She will always believe he's still here,
Until she finds his bones in a frostbitten tomb!"
The rose which she seeks,
Only grows on a child's grave.