She walks with frost in silver hair, Old as stone, sharp as frigid air. With storm-worn hands the hills are shaped, The land remembers where she stepped. Winter’s crown, the dark year’s keep Till spring is loosed from her long sleep.
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She walks with frost in silver hair, Old as stone, sharp as frigid air. With storm-worn hands the hills are shaped, The land remembers where she stepped. Winter’s crown, the dark year’s keep Till spring is loosed from her long sleep.