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 winter is 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 in gloved hand
At 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 these stories
Not the fathers
Not their children

Not those waking
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 these stories
Not the fathers
Not their children

Who's the winner?
Not the roses
Not the buyers
Not the sellers

Not the tellers
Of these 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?