Hills of white are painted,

Of wilted leaves and dried spruce.

A nip of cold bites gently

As the frigid breeze continues.

Of wilted leaves and dried spruce,

A magic is born.

As the frigid breeze continues,

The warmth we will mourn.

A magic is born,

Without ache of the sun.

The warmth we will mourn,

But the miracle is not done.