The Cry beneath the Northern s

A flame was born in winter’s breath, It sang where silence dared not stay, Its voice a hymn of love and death, A violin in fierce dismay— It carved through dusk, then slipped away. The bow became a blade of light, It danced upon the strings like fire, Each note a wound, each chord a fight, A soul consumed by lost desire, Yet rising still, though worn and dire. The stars looked down with frozen grace, As sorrow bloomed in trembling sound, A falcon lost in time and space, Its wings in music tightly bound— It soared, though never touched the ground. The second movement breathed like prayer, A candle lit in deepest gloom, Its melody—a soft despair, A garden grown beside a tomb— Where roses weep, yet still they bloom. Then thunder broke the final chain, The rhythm surged, a storm unsealed, A gallop through the ice and rain, The heart no longer seeks to yield— Its truth in fire at last revealed.