The world’s colored bottles,
You've hung them in an old oak.
They never stop with their noise.
They whisper and scream.
The world’s colored bottles
Are filled with all its life.
And the wind will always whistle a tune as it blows deliberately by.
They are hung with a child’s ribbon,
Some with fishing line; thread;
Some are tied with old, braided rope.
In the night they glow: pink, blue, and red;
Some even glow yellow and green.
Yet, inside them there is no candle,
Just buttons and songs and old change.
The world’s colored bottles
Hang everywhere,
With their laughter and screams and melodies.
The crickets and birds join the chorus,
Just to feel the magic as they sing.
The world will dance along with those bottles,
Though only when reality flees.
The world’s colored bottles
Are made by songs and dreams;
By pure love and fervent hearts.
They sway up in that old oak, where you hung them,
And perhaps even help the stars along.
Little children of all ages,
Whether they be two or two-hundred,
Will gather around with clasped hands,
And sing the bottles’ old, faithful song.