Green and white,
As the winter greets the spring,
Grudgingly.
My soul,
Dormant in the frozen ice,
Protected from grief,
Yet knowing that it must live,
Even if others cannot,
And yet,
Comfortable in its dormancy,
For a  time in slumber
Allows distance,
And healing,
And courage notwithstanding,
Rebirth must come,
Perhaps not of its own accord,
But as the yearling leaves its mother,
And seeks that place
Which it will call home.

Let the agony abate,
And halt all consolation,
For I must rise from the ashes,
New,
With armor intact
For coming battle,
Of which I cannot know the course.
But I am strong,
Again,
Risen in honor,
But humbled,
For I know the score.
But ye,
Ye are young,
And invincible,
And are wont to charge
The battle lines
Without fear,
For death causes you no alarm,
For you have not seen it.

Death, my son, is cruel.
Watch as living soul
Becomes caricature
Where no life resides,
And reconsider thy recklessness,
For there is no force to save you,
Without recognition
Of the sanctity of thine own life.

So rise again the flowers,
And the green grasses of spring.
Thou art the perennial reminder,
Of the sanctity of life,
Itself.
And we who die a thousand deaths,
Respect you,
As we, also,
Must rise again.