In a realm of frost, two figures stand, Whispers of myths from a winterland. One gazes afar, in silence bound, The other in repose, with ice her crown.

They are the sentinels of a world so stark, Carved from the cold, from the frosty dark. One stands tall, amidst the snow's soft sigh, The other sits still, under the pale grey sky.

Eternal they wait, in a dance of dreams, Cloaked in the chill of icy streams. In the silent world of stone and storm, They hold the secrets of a formless form.