The flowers in the meadow are destroyed
From earth were taken by a mass of flames
Taking these things that we all once enjoyed
They cleared the way for new growth to reclaim

The house foreclosed in old, rundown Detroit
Is rotting to the ground beside the park
But roses grow inside and fill the void
The house is now, no doubt, a work of art

The winter has reversed the work of spring
The grass is dead; the flowers do not bloom
But in the distance birds begin to sing
And urge the spring to rise up from its tomb

At times suppressed and beaten to the ground
We all will rise and in this hope is found