The mountains still remember us,
Though mines have quieted their song,
They cradle every winding creek
That carried us this far along.

The ridges wear the morning mist
Like shawls our grandmothers once spun,
While every sunrise whispers low,
“Child, your finest days will come.”

The hands that hauled the coal below,
That built with sweat, with faith, with pride,
Have planted something stronger still—
A hope no hardship could divide.

The schoolhouse lights burn late at dusk,
Young dreamers map tomorrow’s sky.
Some leave to learn the wider world,
Some stay to teach the mountains why.

Old storefront windows bloom again,
With books and crafts and laughter shared.
A fiddle rings on Friday nights,
And strangers leave as kin who cared.

The forests climb reclaimed old slopes,
Where scarred earth slowly learns to heal.
Elk roam where tipples once stood tall,
And wildflowers soften rusted steel.

The rivers run a little clearer,
The children cast their lines once more.
Their future is not found elsewhere—
It’s growing at their very door.

For wealth is more than seams of coal,
Or fortunes buried underground.
It’s every neighbor lending hands
When storms and sorrow come around.

It lives inside the church bells’ echo,
The firehouse siren in the night,
The farmer turning fresh-cut hay,
The porch lamp burning warm and bright.

So let the doubters shake their heads
And say these hills have had their day.
The mountains smile with patient hearts—
They’ve always found another way.

For Eastern Kentucky rises
Not by forgetting where it’s been,
But by carrying its stories
As seeds upon the mountain wind.

And someday children yet unborn
Will walk these hollows, proud and free,
Not speaking of what once was lost,
But all their home was meant to be.