Imprint

There's a little house in the country Uninhabited by man Yet touches of life still linger Footprints from where a little child ran There's a little garden in the country Untended by man Yet the flowers still grow Remnants from plants before, tended by hand The back door swings open The back door won't close Yet the house shakes with movement The cause, no man knows The garden is desolate Yet the flowers still grow Man cares not for the little ones Because after all, they will die in the snow