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.