In Northern lands topped by ice and rock,
a white raven calls over unkempt shore.
The harsh winds growl and leave a quiet knock
rolling without messages anymore.
Steadfast heat flares and yet will not bind.
It runs from frost biting at weakened lips.
Littering notes, of which he left behind,
hold longings concerning hard, bony hips.
A young man drapes himself in shades:
passionate patterns of blue, white, red.
Sensations, striking like dulled blades,
tell tapping thoughts of words he never said.
His body remains cold, reflecting mine;
maybe friends can embrace and intertwine.
I do not own "Hetalia". I do, however, own this poem. This sonnet was written as a tribute to Hetalia's Iceland for his National Day. Svo, til hamingju með afmælið, Ísland! (So, happy Birthday, Iceland!) This is sonnet was intended to be about unrequited platonic love, due to the fact that I personally think that Iceland would be a great QP partner. If I messed up the Icelandic, please tell me. Also, comments and constructive criticism are heavily appreciated.
Thank you for reading! Takk fyrir!
See you / Sjáumst,
- Gray Carolean
