A box; ever-unopened.
But we should open it someday, shouldn't we?
Aren't you curious?
What if it isn't what we expect and this hope and faith is wrongly placed?
Or maybe we know, deep down, that it isn't.
Un-melting snow, in the fire of what? What place should fire take on this box, so pure?
Opposing spirits; do they dance or do they die?
Can you see that our box is traced with contradictions; oppositions; war?
And people are jealous of us and our box.
Our box of hatred - clear hatred - and pain.
But such beauty can be blinding as can that which our box stands for.
And so we look upon the forms on the outer layer of the box:
The plaited hair showing it is intertwined like ropes
not suppressed like the girl of wonder in the fairytales.
The dancers of elegance; wonder; fascination
not the pain and torture they go through to be 'perfect'
not the fake perfection leaving tear-stains on their cheeks.
Snow of Winter purity
not cold hatred and deadly chills.
Fire of passion and an ever burning light
Not of destruction and turmoil and blight.
And spirits of beauty, of everlasting life
Ignoring that they are forever dead now
Fighting with those on the same side as their own.
People are jealous of this box; our box.
For its message is blind so they need not know what is within.
But what is within?
Never, do we dare open our beautiful box of belief.