She draws thralls to her as she rides across the snow in the winter’s frosted air
The woman in black upon her black horse, with violet eyes and pale white skin
A spray of crystals cast up from the metallic shoes piercing the thin layer of ice,
That covers the earth as a frozen blanket fly through the piercing cold
Shrapnel waiting to puncture the skin of any who happen too close to her path
Those whose blood run cold from the shard of ice lodged into their heart
Unable to know any love other than that of the ice queen dressed in black
What made her so cold, this magical queen, who desires above all else warmth
Who draws others to her embrace until abandons them to their fate
To desire her who cannot love them back, for she never learned how to love
She knows the cold of winter, and while she may dream of the thaw of spring
That is not her element, she may have been forged in fire but now she is cold steel
A dagger that can only wound and never heal, a weapon not a salve
Yet many continue to dare to dance upon her razor fine edge and bleed
Yet, in the danger and coldness there is an undeniable allure that draws men
Like insects drawn towards the light that ultimately consumes them
She is who she was formed to be, she knew only abandonment and betrayal
Now she is the truth that she knows, the shard of ice that pierces her own heart
The desire to be loved and the inability to trust that the love offered is real
She wishes she could be an empty carapace of a cold skull unaware of the damage
She causes as she rides across the land leaving frozen souls in her wake
Black and white, fire and ice, steel and flesh, emotions, whim and lies
The absence of feeling and the presence of desire, longing for love and passion
Drawn to power, seeking truth, whatever it may be in her frozen heart
There is a cool fire that lies in her violet eyes, but there is ice in her veins
And those whose destinies have been joined to hers will know her pain
For they dared to draw to close to the ice queen as she rode through winter
And their truth is now her shard of ice that cuts into their souls
Sign of the Rose 
This poem owes its origins to Andrezj Sapkowski’s character and dialogues particularly from the dialogue below:
She touched the black kestrel’s head. The bird fluffed up its feathers and silently opened its curved beak.
‘Emotions, whims and lies, fascinations and games. Feelings and their absence. Lies and truth. What is truth? The negation of lies? Or a statement of a fact? And if the fact is a lie, what then is the truth? Who is full of feelings which torment him, and who is the empty carapace of a cold skull? Who? What is truth Geralt? What is the essence of truth?’
‘I don’t know, Yen. Tell me.’
‘No.’ she said and lowered her eyes. For the first time. He had never seen her do that before. Never.
‘No.’ she repeated. ‘I cannot, Geralt. I cannot tell you that. That bird, begotten of the touch of your hand will tell you. Bird? What is the essence of truth?’
‘Truth,’ the kestrel said, ‘is a shard of ice.’
From Andrezj Sapkowski’s short story ‘A Shard of Ice’ in Sword of Destiny