Snow is slowly falling, the night is gently calling,

Molten gold twists a silken web,

How, for the spiders must already be dead.

Icy tears float below,

A forked tongue, rotten fruit--

An image we all well know.

The purest soot is coming down,

Quick! Prepare the king’s final crown!

 

I used to think myself a princess--

Glittering jewels, fine china, and candlelit balls,

A young beauty awaiting a future power,

An obedient court and faithful knights,

All awaiting my blessed word.

Spoiled?

But of course--

Who better to satisfy myself

Than an overactive mind?

Who better to fulfill my will

Than an army, completely under control?

Danger?

Don’t make me laugh!

Who better to fight

Than one whose life is guaranteed?