A little girl stood there in the meadows,
As if time could not stop;
When will she fall to the lowest of lows?
If her songs have not dropped

The ivory hair cascading downwards
And upwards the stairway of heaven.
Ice blue eyes speak of frozen crystal shards,
And her soul is an ashen haven.

A chaste mirror, yet tainted
With the spells of realities
With a crimson color being painted.
She can only whisper nothing fantasies.

Thorns formed by silver stones
As she says, “Back in distress”
Another circumstance comes for her to be alone
She has descended, the winter mistress.

A different loner once again
She is a pale rose tragedy
Mixed with black that faded into a jaded gray stain
Her ripped voice sings another elegy…