Sellers Of Flowers

The sellers of flowers buy up old roses They pull off dead petals, like old heads of lettuce And sell 'em as new ones, for cheaper and fairer But they die by the morning, so who is the winner Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers, maybe winter 'Cause winters coming, soon after summer It runs faster, faster, chasing off autumn We go from a warm sun to only a white sun We go from a large sun to only a small one When I was a small girl, I walked through the market Holding my dad's hand, mitten gloved hand That night there were roses, lit up in glass boxes The heat lamps would keep them from freezing in winter We never bought them but somebody must have Maybe they made it or maybe they froze up Before any person had put them in water And hoped that they'd still be alive by the morning Who's the winner Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers Not the tellers, of the stories Not the fathers, not their children Not those walking on a dark night Through a memory they're forgetting Who's the winner, who's the winner Maybe winter, maybe winter Somebody steps on a light through a tunnel They're holding a piece of their mind in the rubble Hold on, I won't let go, I want to know But no one lives long enough to see the outcome To know any answers, to know what the point is To know if the winter ever came closer Than on that night when I walked with my father A small piece of ice, lodged in my mind Lodged in my thoughts, lodged in my eyes Cold all around, cold all around Warm from inside, warm from inside Who's the winner Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers Not the tellers, of the stories Not the fathers, not their children Who's the winner Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers Not the tellers, of the stories Not the fathers, not their children Not those walking on a dark night Through a memory they're forgetting Who's the winner, who's the winner Maybe winter, maybe winter Who's the winner, who's the winner Maybe winter, maybe winter Who's the winner, who's the winner