Last of the Long Lost
In every raided grave of dreams,
Lies a wreath of hope.
In every torn, tattered and shattered spirit,
The soul and the bones do hold.
From the blanket of the winter snow,
From crevices stuffed with horrors untold,
A fragile rose dares to grow.
For these are fires that hoses cannot quench,
They just surge up, can’t turn, won’t relent.
These are voices that a thousand rifles and muzzles
Can never muffle, feathers that just won’t ruffle.
And so, up from a distant corner in the dark,
Up from a valley darker than a prison yard,
Up from the rubble emerges a figure all so stark
He shakes off the night’s pitch black cloak
Till his eyes burn brighter than a fire well stoked.
He is beaten black and blue,
Pound and pommeled, left all bruised.
But the infinite loop of turmoil couldn’t finish him off,
From the ashes he rose like a phoenix aloft.
For out of the darkness a star was born-
A rose that grew from amongst the thistles and thorns.
With awe, all the world turned to see,
And said please do tell
Who are you that still stands where many men fell?
And he said, ‘I am the last of the long lost,
Son of the long gone,
The seed watered with tears and blood,
Defying the scorching searing heat of the summer’s sun,
The birth of a dream and a promise of what’s to come.
Living up to my forefathers’ creed
Sparking life to their visions and dreams
AYE, I AM THE LAST OF A DYING BREED!’
