" They fall silently
the steps of her arrival -
crossing snow so pale 
even the morning sky would fall 
into nights amber
(if it knew of her ways & worth); 
for she has entered the palace of gold 
- her hair braided with hope
tainted with autumn leaves
that seem like a hanged man's rope -
for her name is war and 
her crown is crafted out of grief. "

― Laura Chouette