As the wind blows through the barren trees,
Words come tumbling whispering on the breeze,
Whispers words of wisdom that cannot be bought,
Only bits and pieces of intelligence to be sought.
It barely breaks the stillness of the cold winter night,
But rolls in the frigid plains of white,
And then becomes one with the air of the season,
Shatters the stillness without though a reason.
Through the frigidness of the bitter cold,
Tells tales and stories and ways of old.
It winds through the cities and throughout the towns,
From the penniless peasents to the kings and their crowns.
Over the plains and through the prairies,
Up on the hill where the wealthy son marries.
Down to the street where the poor children play,
And over the housetops next to the bay.
Out over the waves to the sea of deep blue,
And finds a boat with passengers, too.
Back to the mainland with rolling hills of white,
And finds the children asleep at night.
As the wind blows through the barren trees,
Words come tumbling, whispering on the breeze.