For now the winter bites
Breath stolen by the cold fingers
Of the nights frost
Hanging in the still air
We shall return to our motherland
Victoria is the name
Pressed onto cracked lips

Let the fire of saviour burn tonight
As we prepare
For thine enemy shall taste
The cold arrows
Peirce the breast of harlots
As we march

Bear skin warms our back
And norse songs pound inside souls
Of brave warriors
Beneath the silver moon

March march march
Until this land is free again
And we return
To the love of the
Summer angel

Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?

Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?

Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?