When winter raged,
Sikita huddled in her bare arms
Tingled thoughts in mourning
In front of the rags and a window
Where she could not see very well the world
In a dungeon, death happening all the time closely,
And she remained strong, despite the painful scars,
Waiting for her salvation,
This who rode far and too soon
Almost lost when her faith
A winged horse appeared, wet and orange,
Invading hills, different lands and quicksands,
It was for her, Sikita, awaited as a prey,
Giving you the long awaited freedom
Far from the clutches of terrible Muriat,
Taking it apart from suffocation,
The fields and clean air,
Sikita shone,
Before the rainbow, she rejuvenated,
And all beings of a virgin forest
sang in her back,
At the sound of the water steam and clear,
To heaven, the efforts, the Moon came,
As a graceful Sabbat to charms,
In light of her true inner
Gilding lilies in the ground,
And the clouds and snow sparkles in tears ...
(Joyce Martins)
