The clock strikes 12 with a familiar tone, I walk to the window of my humble home, The air heavy with frost the land white with snow, A solitary couple exchanging gifts below Though you are not there. A squeal of joy was heard by all, In sadness I turn, a tear does fall, The gifts, the fern, the food the wine Means nothing when you cannot be mine,
As you are not there. I sit alone by the fire, and let the clock tick past the hour, I think of all the joy we went through, And I know a certain fury friend misses you too, Because you are not there. Suddenly a knock at the door, In such a way I heard before, I fly through the air to fling it open Your beautiful face and three special words are spoken, You have always been there.
