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More from ~Dreamweaver38

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,
I remember.

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 cœur,
J'adore ma papa,
Qui fonder moi et soulevé moi,
Et bâtir mon la maison
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 wi
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,
Hetalia Nation Poems - HungaryFor You

Perched upon the balcony,
I watch the mountains,
Knowing what bloodshed and evil lies beyond their bases,
And I long for my sword and bow,
To feel their weight at my side,
in my rough and callused hands.

But the weight at my side belongs to another now,
My hands greedy for the touch of something else,
or should I say someone,
as he passes through the garden below,
head held high,
ever the aristocrat.

And I watch you pass in secret from my overhead perch,
the rhythm of your steps,
the grace with which you walk,
the countenance of business that ever graces your handsome face.
I have much to learn.

For I'd draw my sword

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April 3, 2010
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Mar 11, 2010, 9:14:59 AM
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:icondreamweaver38:
From the Italy Trip!

It makes you wonder what it used to look like...

Critique Please!
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