Disclaimer: Faia Embrim ain't mine. "White Winter Hymnal" is made and composed by Fleet Foxes.

Merry Christmas, Hammerschlag! I hope you enjoy this smidgling piece of whimsical wintery-ness, I suppose? I hope you have a wonderful time! :D (Hopefully in colder weather than summertime-feeling Texas.)


I was following the pack

All swaddled in their coats

With scarves of red tied 'round their throats

To keep their little heads

From fallin' in the snow

And I turned 'round and there you go

And, Michael, you would fall

And turn the white snow red as strawberries

In the summertime


How far from home is never certain at points

At times treading with the languid flow

Iced, ghostly breaths and creaking, tired joints

Eyes blinking, ever so blue, ever so slow

A beautiful blade wrapped in cloth

Armor wreathed in scars heavy and light

The cape billows, like fluttering wings of the moth

Steps like lion's soft pads in the night

How long was it when the soldier first left?

Time immeasurable could not be remembered

Heart throbbing and yearning, home bereft

The crunching snow, just like a stone-cold December

Shaking his head, listening to silence

A crimson scarf shielding his fragile neck

Winds howling, gifting no guidance

Like goddesses that fall to a human-shaped fleck

What now, is the fate of his people?

What of his friends so far, kin so few?

Wondering questions bring answers feeble

Answers unknown like this foreign view

Thoughts that scatter like sleet into gales

Each breath laboring like falling lambs

Each step struggling as if pelted by hail

His soul wavering as if forever damned

What was he thinking, to tread alone?

What was he thinking, to journey where he won't know?

Cheeks redder than blood, breath whiter than bone

Drudging slowly across the neverending snow

Words die on his lips before being born

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

He saw his father again, or so he had sworn

He still does not give himself any quarter

Why did they follow him?

Lambs to the slaughter

Singing a heroic hymn

Or a dirge with dying fathers

Whimsical are the twirling motes in unforgiving winds

His eyes narrow, making patterns from each and every one

Even if clarity is gone, yes, not even a hint

The tiny strange smile is nevertheless a victory won

Why should he dwell upon so much beyond his grasp?

Oh, why should he lament upon that which is resolved?

He peers into his own self, now horrifyingly aghast

And the twisting in his heart, even for a bit, had dissolved

A bird, red like passion, lights oh so gently down

Uncaring for the wintery cold and relentless storm

Perhaps he, like the bird, should not drown

Under chilling worlds and piercing scorns

Ike trekked on, determined to one day reach

A place beyond the frigid, cold, gray seas

Perhaps a place that violence can't teach

Nor rear anymore rotting debris

Ike wandered on, losing himself to the wintery abyss

But unafraid that he was lost in anyway

For in wandering he hoped to find, once more, bliss

And find himself at peace, at least, in one sunnier day