She was white, like fresh snow;

Deep, and soft and fragile.

She would melt in the hands of the coldest men

Because they were warmer than her.

She glistened under the cold sunlight

As she piled on top of herself

Hiding, scolding and mumbling sometimes

But still cold.

She was warm and she was fresh to every soul that touched her

But it was her soul that kept her cold.

It was she who would keep her solid.

And underneath the white, she was dusty

She was hard and she was heavy.

Under those layers upon layers of freshness

Lay the invincible, filthy black

Mixed with sand and soil

Rock-solid like ice.

The white hid the black completely.

It was the black that kept her going.

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