It's white-cold season again. The snow is drifting down so sweetly, it reminds me of your hair. Beauitful pale silver.

It's on such nights like these, when the wind is howling with the pack, and the frost blankets the ground, that I remember you best, my little love.

Where are you now? Probably in the palace of the high ones, gazing at the stars alone, or with her, when you promised to watch them side by side with me. Not that it matters. When it comes to you, my little love, only your happiness matters.

So, I wonder; do you watch these same stars I see tonight, and think of me? Or are you reliving your ancestry as a near-high one, entwined with the mother of all wolf-elves?

My little silver hair, how I long for your touch, especially on these cold nights, I crave your warm caress, but it never comes.

So perhaps I shall enter your dreams tonight little love, and atleast take solace in the fact, that I can be with you halfway, in spirit.

It is late beloved, so goodnight, and sweet dreams.