every time She screams for them to run
the ponies of the earth only run
from Her
the snow-pure mare with a mane and dress of color
in a world dulled with muted grays and browns
Her heart sings desperately to help these ponies
who only lock themselves up in
constructions too flimsy to stand
against anything more than a storm
She cries out again with a pleading voice not suited
to being in the cold
dry
biting
freeze
that forever haunts this land
Celestia begs in the settlement square
Her own heart pounding with fear
for these ponies to
run
(as She had done)
and escape the wrath of the tyrant tirek
the white mare with Her gown's hem
no longer bright with traces of something other then
dull
indistinct
and
other drab hues that suggest only
mourning and sorrow
falls to Her knees in
wet gray slush
dirtying Her pristine coat
and cries
as She watches a bolt of light
straying far from where the battle was
and belonging to none but Her shadow who stayed
She watches it fall
onto the buildings, like chests locked too tight,
that house jewels only She can see
and around Her
the world begins to burn