Fair Marzipam, of alabaster hue,
Whose fingers, stout, a gentle purpose knew,
No orphan now, but bound by kindred's chain,
A family found, where shadows did remain,
A kinship born of guilt, a heavy grace.
She held a beauty, quiet in her face,
Yet moved with grace that echoed, strong and free,
A paradox for all the world to see.
She'd smile, and suitors, poor of earthly worth,
Would find a hope, a blossom newly birthed.
For Marzipam, with kindness in her soul,
Would bid them rise, and make their spirits whole.
Her heart, it yearned for lands of northern snow,
For Canada's vast wilds, where breezes blow.
From maple's sweet, to mountains capped with white,
She dreamed of them, by day and through the night.
A princess strange, with passions all her own,
On alabaster throne, she sat alone,
And yet, not truly, for her heart did keep,
The weight of guilt, and slumber did not sleep.
