sweet land of misery
of thee i sing.
Dawn is quiet – birds flutter in a starless, sunless sky, singing at every passerby, above the rabbits that have burrowed in the earth and the grass that waves above them.
It is for this reason he loves the birds. They sing to him – without knowing who he is, without knowing what he's done. They are free with their blessings, for all their voices are like those of the seraphs, and he cannot return the song so freely given – and they know this, surely, as they catch him in their beady black eyes. They contemplate him for a long moment - in which he's tempted to scurry on, lest the sun rise on him - and sing on regardless.
He trots down past the waving grass and burrowed rabbits on a path made of gravel and his own tears with a drunkard's gait, but he's mostly sober – but not sober enough to stop himself from screaming as he skips pebbles across the lake.
He doesn't care if anyone hears; it hurts and he needs to let go.
So he opens his mouth for the first time in his long time and sings, voice like the low, still lake: "Sweet land of misery, of thee I sing."
I don't own Hetalia.
Written quickly over frustration over ruined nails and a disheartening argument. I'm back. Sort of.