As the wind blows,

the trees will fall.

A man will yell, 'clear'

the echoes booming and crisp.

It sinks into the mass of green

calling, chasing someone away.

 

The little girl can't look away

and as the whistle blows,

it ripples her ribbon, green,

he watches the wave during the fall-

the order to kill was crisp,

but the reason was never clear.

 

That day, the sky was clear

the man could not look away.

That day, the air was crisp

it stung him, along with their blows.

And when he finally had to fall,

he left behind the girl in green.

 

Her eyes, since then, are green.

Her tears, for now, are clear.

She watched them fall,

could not look away.

She hears the call when the wind blows,

responds 'yes,' her voice calm and crisp.

 

The lines of the train are crisp,

juxtaposed by her curves of green.

The whistle, when it blows,

makes it all piercingly clear-

that memory will never slip away-

to many times did she see them fall.

 

Now it is fall.

The air and the colors are crisp.

She has gone away,

the girl with the curves of green.

To her, it has become clear-

she must go the way the wind blows.

 

After the fall, it seems nothing should be green.

The air may be crisp, and the sky clear,

but she will have gone away, following the whistle that blows.