A quiet village of electric incense
Where the cascades of white never seem to relent
A calliopes\' decadence,to which is inquired
If it\'s whistles of steam,from a flame,have been sired
Carousels wearing a coat made of snow
Breezes that circle where winds seldom go
Winter collects memoirs it creates
As the clouds act as canvas and the snow their white paint
That within the breezes inscribed
With words meant for those whose spirits survive
Their graves adorned with roses from whom
That has yet to join them,but will very soon
From the moment that their first breath was taken
They\'ve been in a tomb most would perceive forsaken
Empty as is life and it\'s meaning
That which one is living and that which came preceeding
Just as he who stares at the sun
Will not be permitted the subsequent one
We lose sight of who and what we hold dear
Symbolized,all too well,by the words written here
Traced in the tears of a forgotten snow
Those that adorn this long empty chateau
Melting into what the Winter bemoans
A coat made of roses that the Spring has now sewn