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.