Where the orchard meets the line of pines, old voices braid through weathered time. They say a boy once sang by the shore, now I can’t hear that song no more. They pinned their medals to his chest, told him heaven would do the rest. But sand don’t care for shining things — it eats through metal, bone, and dreams. And the wildfire sermons still catch flame, silver tongues in borrowed names. They preach of peace with trembling hands, while drawing borders in the sand. Jimmy played till his hands went numb, ghosts drumming slow on every strum. He said, “The general’s truth won’t last — it burns too bright, it fades too fast.” Up in the holler, crows still cry; their wings cut holes across the sky. The wind remembers every name — the stone forgets, but flowers came. Yeah, wildfire the sermons never sleep, they pass the torch for othersand.s to keep. They bless their gold, then count their dead, and call it grace to clear their head. So hold the hand that tends the ground, let your voice fall soft, not loud. Peace don’t shout — it sows and stays, a quiet hymn that outlives praise.
