Winter's Come
The cold.
The wind.
The streets of Geneva are whispering:
Winter's come and you're within.
The dark.
The still.
The trees of Geneva are whispering:
Light's long gone and you with it.
The plain.
The bleak.
The Genevans are whispering:
What's the word for saying it?
Winter's come and we're all filled
with hopeless strain
and dreadful tears.