Rising up among the wreckage
Of a world come crashing down,
Amidst the rubble,
Amongst the ash,
A figure tall and proud.
She’s clean and pure
With pride and strength,
Yet red and black and blue.
Her body, though strong,
Is battered and broken.
Her face is bruised and beaten;
Her skin is black and blue.

Surveying the ruins
With bloodshot eyes,
She sees not death,
But a brand new life.
In all the ruins
Of the end of her world,
There is a figure,
Living and breathing,
Filled with more wisdom
Than she who died.

For she lost something that day,
The day her world came down.
More than just her porcelain skin
Or the beauty of her youth.
She lost her simple innocence,
The view from the eyes of a child.
As she picks up the pieces
Of her crumbled-down life,
She works with the hands of the wise.

Her world was destroyed,
And her body was beaten;
But her will was not broken,
And her strength was not weakened.
She’ll start her life anew,
Building up from the ruins,
A new life of pride,
A new life of love,
A new life of the wise.