Sleep, my child, while darkness gathers,
while coal dust settles on the sill.
Your daddy's deep beneath the mountain,
digging black to pay our bills.
Dream, my child, of clear blue rivers,
though our creek runs orange with waste.
Dream of forests thick with ginseng,
not the bald and blasted face.
Rest, my child, on this thin pillow,
while the midnight shifts change guard.
The company owns the land we sleep on,
but they can't claim your beating heart.
Grow, my child, in quiet courage,
learn to love these wounded hills.
Some will tell you there's no future,
no way forward, no jobs, no will.
Know, my child, we are descended
from those who would not be moved,
who found ways to feed their families
when the odds were stacked and cruel.
Hear, my child, the mountain's promise,
whispered through the ancient trees:
what appears broken can be mended,
what seems lost might still be freed.
Sleep now, child, while I keep watching,
guarding dreams too big for words.
Tomorrow brings its work and worry,
but tonight, rest undisturbed.
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