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
