The Ballad of Camp Fifty-Two

She used to ride with angels, squirrels lined up in rows
Tiny figurines in drawers where only she still goes
A cup of tea goes cold again, beside the online store
While upstairs roll four daughter-eyes—"She's off to her empire once more…"

There's no soft goodbye at dinner, just: "Be back soon, I swear."
But soon becomes an hour, then two… lost in winter air
Her partner shakes his head again, "She's building what this time?"
A clinic. A shelter. A watchtower built in rhyme.

And if you call her name now…
She might not even hear
'Cause she's not just who she was
She's Arthur... or Guinevere.

Camp Fifty-Two… when the cold sets in
She's not just a mother, not just next of kin
She's the voice in the storm, the warmth in the code
She's a lord with a charm, and a lady who knows.

In Camp Fifty-Two… where the snow never dies
She flirts through the frost with her clever disguise
And though her bike's frozen and the world moves on—
She finds something real in a pixel-borne dawn.

Arthur speaks with confidence, Guinevere with grace
She builds, commands, connects… from a quiet living space
They think it's just a phase again—but they don't see the flame
Of a woman who commands the storm and signs it with her name

Thirty years I've watched her rise
Through phases, books, and dreams
From Guns 'n Roses lullabies
To icebound battle schemes

In Camp Fifty-Two… where the frost runs deep
She laughs, she fights, she sometimes forgets to sleep
She gives more than they know, through a screen made of light
And she's building a kingdom out of long winter nights.

And when the storm breaks… and you're finally through…
Remember—no one builds a world…
Quite like you.