| The first snow is always whitest
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| it's falling heavy and quiet tonight
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| the plow truck crawls down the street
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| and the snowman has a plastic bucket hat
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| if a star lights up, I'll follow you
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| there is so little that keeps me going
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| the tracks behind us them the snow has leveled off
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| and the silence gives me no answer
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| The first snow is always whitest
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| it lies over my window panes
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| as an alpine chain of Christmas Eve memories
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| of spruce and quarrel and the father's gray sack
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| and in three or four hours the bells will ring
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| from Södermalm to Vasastan
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| all the waiting is over
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| but not for me
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| I'm going to bed and sleep all day
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| The first snow is always whitest
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| and I know it was a long time since it fell
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| the whitest crystals turned black
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| and your cheek is bitten by a new kind of cold
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| in the multitude of people I have sought your gaze
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| to see if there is anything left
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| and whoever I meet
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| and whatever it is
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| you are never interchangeable
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| The first snow is always whitest
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| running marshals in the Old Town
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| large flakes of ice at Nybrokajen
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| and the facades of light on Stureplan
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| and somewhere out there you and I are
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| who we were - those we could be
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| all the waiting is over
|
| but not for me
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| I'm going to bed and sleep all day. |