Who can say

where the winding road ends,

where the dark night fades,

and the light begins

to reveal the path to places unknown

and the promise of harvest for seeds long sown?

Who can say where the winding road ends?

Who can say?

Who can say

where the winding path leads,

where the cold heart cries 

and the blind eye sees

the arc in the road give way to a view

that confounds the many and rewards the few?

Who can say where the winding path leads?

Who can say?

Teach me,

of leaves of gold, crimson and yellow–once green.

Inform me,

of naked branches and limbs laden with virgin snow.

Enlighten me,

of white ice that clings stubbornly to bending bough.

Humble me,

to glorious Spring that emerges triumphant,

then soon gives way, in the inexorable march of seasons

that ends where it all began, yet never ends until…

Who can say

why the winding trail bends,

why the songbird dies,

and the silence descends,

muting the eternal cries of countless lost souls,

leaving fools and the wise to only suppose?

Who can say why the winding trail bends?

Who can say?

Who can say

where the winding road ends,

where the dark night fades, and the light begins

to reveal the path to places unknown,

and the promise of harvest for seeds long sown

but not forgotten?

Who can say where the winding road ends?

Who can say?