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In Winter the forests
Are cold and foreboding…

We are the end
Of the world as it was…

When broken fingers
Learn to write…

This softest of Winters
Just taunts us with stone…

Red is the color
Of rage and of hunger…

When talk is work
And work is cheap…

Walking a tightrope
That’s stuck to the ground…

When a wish has been granted
By star or by genie…

The song stays the same
Through covers and changes…

Trying to speak
Then walking away…