A gown is sleeping on the back of a chair,
the chair is outside, it is the Queen’s chair.
The trees’ blood freezes, crackling sounds from the forest.
Frost burns the crows black.
Schedir, Caph and Rucba are sketching a woman in the sky.
The gown wakes up and slides across the pale landscape.
Secretly it gathers the birds from the branches and takes them to the trenches of the ocean.
Secretly it gathers the outlines of stars under its hems.
Cold hands pass through my dream,
tears freeze into my eyes, sweat crowns my forehead.
Every room knows the name of the game,
this dance stitched through the fear of the eyes.