By Maradas Graham

In a hollow that's deep in the haunted wood
Where the cold folk do what cold folk should
And the red caps dye their caps in blood
And laugh at the troubles they plan for the good

There stands a throne of shimmerless gray
That has ne'er been touched by the light of day
And in it reposes in quiet array
The Queen with the look that's as cold as the clay

Her dress is of shadow and spider silk rare
A circlet of silver is set in her hair
And a face that is more calculating than fair
Her breath makes no steam in the chill winter air

The Queen raises up her lily-white hand
A gesture somehow both indifferent and grand
And signals the hour to her grim, motley band
Who strike up the dance in the glen where they stand

Tromping and stomping in that sultry hour
A sight which would make the King's children all cower
The ash from the bonfire falls down in a shower
And rests on bare tree limbs and dead petaled flowers

The Queen simply watches the hours unfold
The air all around seems to shiver with cold
When suddenly daylight is soon to be told
By the crack in the sky that is pale pink and gold

The dancers all weary but wicked with fun
Bow to the Queen and retire to a one
As off to their shadow-filled shelters they run
To rest from their revelry and scorn the sun

But the dance will begin when again comes the shade
Stretching across the faerie glade
For before the stars begin to fade
The dance will begin in the faerie glade