The snow is cold. So cold that it burns.
As the fire which warm our houses.
As salt in wounds.
As heartache.
As the pain to have lost you.
As the hate for meself.
I killed you. I didn't want to, but I did.
And now I'm here, in the place of the murdering, in front of the tree in which I imprisoned you, beliving that you were the moster.
But I did not kwon: I had just to what my mirror to see evil's face.
I'm here, I'm crying, screaming, stretch on the Snow still dirty for blood, tightening a piece of your
mantle in my hands.
Someone forces me the stand up and bring me in her arms.
She doesn't say me to not cry, she lets me vent my pain crying on her shoulder.
Back home sais SnowWhite finally.
I glance for the last time that place, and then I tighten my only hope: my red mantle.