Hetalia Nation Poems - CanadaJe me Souviens
Marvel at the night sky,
adorned in gems,
and glowing with colours,
the spirit of the ancestors,
run along pine down paths,
footfalls the heartbeat of the forest,
beating as one,
living as one.
Raise high the lily and with it the rose,
while proudly flies the maple leaf on autumn winds,
from sea to shining sea,
je me souviens,
With a glowing heart,
I march in solitude,
bringing peace in my wake,
regardless of who notices,
cleaning up my brother's messes,
and coming to aid.
Avec la FranÇais dans mon cur,
J'adore ma papa,
Qui fonder moi et soulevé moi,
Et bâtir mon la maison.
And with English on my tongue,
I respect my father,
Who taught me and fought for me,
and built my family.
And each day it does not matter,
if I go unnoticed,
si j'aller invisible,
parce que je me souviens,
My respect for my father,
Mon amour pour ma papa,
And the heartbeat of the forest,
The skies filled with the souls of my ancestors.
Hetalia Nation Poems - PrussiaMy Dear
Many a region I've conquered,
there is but one touch that can break this pride,
held by a gentle angel's face,
and a mean right hook.
As children we would often fight,
as children often do,
and victorious I would always be,
before I truly knew what lied behind those confused emerald eyes.
And they say knowledge is power,
but knowing makes her touch send me to my knees,
as I long to scoop her up from the stuffy halls of aristocracy,
carrying her back to the forests and adventures of our childhood.
But she loves him,
a fool could see it in the way he holds her gaze,
a second or two too long,
the way I've caught myself with her on more than one occasion.
At times I marvel what my reckless warrior sees in such a man,
but then I hear the music and know I've lost her,
for even I am enchanted with its beauty.
I know such thoughts would send Gilbirds whizzing about my head,
one swift crack to my skull from her frying pan,
yet I find myself always crawling back for it,
Hetalia Nation Poems - RussiaI Am Not What I Am
The snow falls relentlessly,
a constant in a constant world,
building a layer of frost around my heart,
held out in my hand,
soon to turn to ice.
My heart upon my sleeve,
I am not what I am,
the hole it left behind filled with sunflowers,
a hope against all likelihood.
In the eyes of the world,
there lies only what the snow has made of me,
the monster General Winter has crafted,
and the sisters who warm my heart,
enough for the dull light of emotion to escape.
Yet I long to be loved,
to end this suffering that has driven me to madness,
to run to warmer climates in the arms of another,
but never my Bella,
whose heart is marred as much as mine under winter's witchcraft,
which longs to paint the tundra red.
And oh how I long to kill with her,
dye the seas in their blood,
claim the world as one with mother Russia,
but then I would be alone with her,
Alone with Bella,
and that is something I fear more than myself.
Sunflowers do not have the capacity to love,