𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔊𝔬𝔩𝔡

By the river deep, where the waters flow, Lived a lad so young, with a heart of snow. In a village small, ‘neath the silent pine, He saw a light, a light divine. Out from the thicket, the Firebird flew, Her wings of flame, of a golden hue— Aye, of a golden hue! He left his plow, he left his kin, To follow the glow where the woods begin, Where the dark, dark woods begin. Through the tangled path, through the weeping mist, Where the silver birch by the frost is kissed. The forest groaned, and the shadows danced, By ancient spells was the lad entranced. Strange voices called from the hollow tree, "Turn back, oh hunter, and let her be!" Aye, let the Firebird be! But through the thorns and the marshy land, He reached for the light with a trembling hand, With a weary, trembling hand. O, BURN SO BRIGHT! O, BURNING WING! Of what dark fate do the spirits sing? The road is long and the night is cold, For the one who hunts the feather of gold. The moon grew pale on the edge of the sky, The bird lit down with a mournful cry. She did not flee, she did not part, She felt the beat of a faithful heart. In her glowing eyes, a truth he saw— Not a beast of flame, but a soul in awe. Aye, a lonely soul in awe. A vision of chains that the forest had spun, A secret of old, now at last undone, Now at last it is undone! The feathers fell like the morning dew, And a maiden stood where the Firebird flew. Her hair was sun, and her eyes were starlight, No more the bird of the burning night— The burning, lonely night! He took her hand, they left the shade, Of the village walls and the haunted glade. Into the dawn, where the world is wide, With hope and freedom, side by side, Forever side by side!