Down in the Holler where the low wind moans and the ghosts of bones fill the sand and stones; the River rushes while the black bear strays where the jaybird plays as the willow sways; cradled in branches where the waters rose hang the hearts of those whom the Seeker knows; deep in the mudflats in their beds of clay there the Sleepers lay as their Weepers pray Hymns to the Mountains and the Bluegrass song hear them sing along through the ages long; Voices of Angels Fill the Mountain air as they sing a prayer to the mourners there; Sing to the heartache when the River flows - where the Dead repose only Jesus knows.
What a lovely tribute to so many lives washed away.
Thank you, Cheryl- it really is heartbreaking
And from what I'm seeing, the crimes continue.
Yes. - we must help each other, despite those who would stop us
Beautifully written R. H. and layered with hope and redemption amid sorrow. ✨🤗🙏💜