For it was not her beauty, the Queen feared nor envied.
But the lamb innocence and the child naivete her ward held.
Raised behind stone arms, mother’s words far from plight and pain.
Obvious to what shook the ground and rumbled through the skies.
Screams nor blood taint the snow,
her stepdaughter remaining white. Her daughter all the same.
Scream forever echoing within the Witch Queen’s ears, wailing mothers engraved deep within her icy eyes.
The Queen remembers all, from the lying throne, the ghosts of war, the blood mixed into the earthy ground below.
The daughter not hers and yet she so dared to nurture, not fall into some dark nature.
Sent her away, into the forest so dark, so cruel,
to hide from pain and horror, to shield her from those that awaited her to blossom and bloom.
To take what is hers, what should always be hers.
To the dwarfs her daughters flees,
upon the words of the Queen,
her Huntsman did follow.
For she could not protect the snowy white child,
From the Princes nor his Huntsman.