They called her the sun-haired courtesan
and her dalliances with a doomed line of princes
have left her imprisoned by the past;
The middle sister of Melancholy and Nostalgia,
forsaken whispers only reveal jealousy of her
heart-consuming eyes, a Winter's bloom.
She withers in love's terrible shell, beautiful
as a rose standing lone in the snow.
Neither a smile nor frown paints her face,
but those entranced princes, slaves of charm, shear
through black-barbed forests for the slightest glimpse;
to their peril, under her eyes, they melt.
With beauty deadly-divine, she fires a gun howl,
and the bullets pierce the sky: tearing open the sun
and drinking its lemondrops, the snow rose cries.