I am the Queen of empty spaces;
I see as far as black wings fly.
Crown me with blackthorn, crown me in withered roses,
drape about me a cloak of black and grey,
ringed in feathered collar.
Bring before me my spear, held high,
blackest red from the grip of fallen heroes.
Shall I stir the cauldron again,
summon them forth again to fight?
Royal is my right.
I sit upon my throne,
built of carnelian, of ash and bone,
of fear and regret and shadows.
I sing the slow, high chant of old
as I cursed them once before.
Come to me now,
I call you, the howling of wolves,
garnet blood from lips worm-eaten beautiful.
The ash trees clatter, wood turned ice,
and I laugh.