The icy river begins to flow Where the sun shines so brightly on the snow. The trees are white with ice, the devil's thrown the dice, But the river keeps on flowing, on and on it goes.
No-one wants to know how cold it is, The stone bridge by the farm knows not how old it is. The river's flown so long and history has gone And the bridge will never know how old it is.
The once clear liquid turns, As the clouds in the sky frown with dismay. The snow that they had shed, went grey without consent And what was the point of the snow once being white.