Текст песни
Flour on the table, paper and a pen,
Crayons scattered where the little ones begin.
Window fogged with winter, radio soft and low,
Little hearts are writing what they hope the world should know.
One asks for a sled, one asks for a song,
One draws a house where every child belongs.
Ink and wishes, folded with care,
Tiny hopes floating in the cold night air.
Letters to Santa, notes to heaven too,
One line for magic, one line for truth.
We tuck our wishes under boughs of green,
Half for the future, half for what's been.
Love in the margins, prayers between the lines,
Letters to Santa, notes to heaven shine.
By the lamplight corner, a small hand hesitates,
Writes a crooked sentence about a face he still remembers.
Mama watches quiet, her smile a little thin,
Then takes her own pen and starts to write within.
Dad clears his throat and folds a paper slow,
They teach their children how to let the feelings show.
Words like lanterns on a snowy street,
Guiding every memory back to where they meet.
Letters to Santa, notes to heaven too,
One line for magic, one line for truth.
We tuck our wishes under boughs of green,
Half for the future, half for what's been.
Love in the margins, prayers between the lines,
Letters to Santa, notes to heaven shine.
There's a chair that's empty and a laugh that's gone,
But the fire keeps a place where the story carries on.
We fold a little paper with a picture and a name,
Leave a candle on the sill and call the past by flame.
Hope is not forgetting, it's the courage to believe,
That every tender letter finds the one it needs.
The youngest slips a drawing of the moon and home,
A ribbon for the tree and a wish to never roam.
Neighbors pass a cookie, church bells distant, slow,
The porch light hums a welcome to the ones we used to know.
Hands together folding, sealing every line,
Passing love from parent to child like a steady sign.