Where desolation roams,
A prophet stands with solemn tone,
Amidst the silence, he breathes alone.
"Can these bones live again?" he cries,
To the wind that whispers and sighs.
The valley echoes with his plea,
As hope and doubt grapple in harmony.
From every corner, bones draw near,
Joints align and flesh appear,
Sinews knit, and skin enfolds,
A transformation that the prophet beholds.
Life courses through the lifeless frame,
As breath revives the ancient flame,
An army rises, strong and tall,
At the prophet's command, they heed the call.
From dry bones to living souls,
A miracle that the prophet extols,
A valley once devoid of zest,
Now filled with life, truly blessed.
The vision fades, the prophet awakes,
With awe, he realizes his sacred takes.
The dry bones, a metaphor profound,
Of hope restored on hallowed ground.
So, in our lives, when all seems lost,
Let faith revive what has been tossed,
From the depths of despair, we can arise,
Renewed and strong, beneath hope's skies.