In a small village
The people gather
To bury their dead.

A harsh winter has
Stolen many lives
And even more
Hope is lost.
Washed away with the
Melting snow and ice.

Through the madness
And sorrow
A young man returns
To a familiar
Field.

The fresh green spring embraces
A large oak at the
Centre of his space.

Hope sprung forth
From the seed
Of a stone.

At the heart of it
The people find love and
Slowly they begin to
Gather around it.

- Peter Hattingh

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