Hard, cold winter bite
furnace of snow deadens light
Cunning hands, bathed in white
gesture, a demand in fright
We bathe in the rapture pure
warm air, chaos curled
red berries balance the leaves
where angels dare no longer go
and Rho, lo and behold
held the window strong and clear
a claim to stake upon the dear
cutting hearts, saving souls
and blood everywhere
in the red snow

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Lupar, in the year 468 AF.