There will be spring,
To the very end,
I'll sleep to the sound,
Of burning winter,
Place for me built,
And for my friends,
By which we'll pass,
Each on his venture.

My father's house,
Is gone,
the houses in his town,
Have [bad word] 
I am a child,
Ten inches tall, 
And I have grown,
While they have stumbled.

And what will be ours to do today,
I to name everything we see,
After what we are and who came before,
And the things [bad word] in fear,
From you and me.