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A Flower Through the Snow (or The Traveler)

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Why is it always the merriment that’s rattling at the door,
In the middle of the day that keeps the night at war?
If only you could open up and let this traveller in,
There could be a-something done about hushing up this din.
There’s a bottle sure, an open sore, the salt of seven seas,
White lines lay upon on the shore from brow creasing pleas.

Well first it’s a little, little sorry then it’s just little more,
‘Til the book finds a new page - now who’s this written for?
Why’d you bury the bones and start thinking they were treasure,
And dig ‘em back up and find the horror not the pleasure.
Is it startled reassurance that the truth ain’t in the flesh?
Well it ain’t in the bones too if there’s no cartilage to mesh.

Now all the chorus girls know a thing or two about this
That night weary wanders see only blue for bliss
As they’re walking through the day putting night sighs to test
Shaking stuck fallen leaves from shady places where you rest
Shut your eyes, go to sleep, though there are a thousand things
To do before tomorrow when winter’s cold voice sings

Can you let this traveller in while there’s still flame in the fire?
Ask to hear his story but if you know it he won’t tell yer
Wait there warm, sit there childish, wait until the new spring.
If he’s asks you the way or to see just say it’s something
In your smile, so stick around it may show, might grow
Like a song in the belly, like a flower through the snow.

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