Snow, white, soft, cold and pristine snow
Amidst that snow, a woman bows.
Heavy tears over her son,
Hoping that they would not show.

She had hope, but now she had none,
And if she could, she would have run.
With heavy and sorrowful tears,
Sat before what was once her son.

Avoiding all of those stares,
She held the cloth, hoping for spares.
The joyful snow her son played in,
Was now a source of pure, raw despair.

The war was the guilty sin,
Excusing all killer’s within.
Her son was only her hero,
Her son was only her hero.