Hopes Die in Winter

Saturday comes around, and the offices and factories lay empty and still

The five day week nobodies are clocking out and checking in, transforming themselves into a self initiated fraternity of warrior knights, and do it yourself battering ram at the decrepid heart of social conformity

There are people to meet, and trains to catch

The family man is left at the station by his viscious alter ego and from August until the following May he's a sporting man, a gambling man, a loose cannon at the back of the stand, a broken glass in the side of your head, a tooled up aggressor in the streets of your favourite town

This is the language of the fist and the boot
But hopes die in winter when its too cold to fight

These are the nightmare legions of the dispossessed, the remaining patriots, the tribalists that time forgot

Their heartfelt frustration is fueled by a localised fanatasism, nihilism fused with sentiment and nostalgia, love of place and pride of birth twin pillars into which the globalist dare not steer their planes of destruction

The final vestiges of blood, honour and glory explode into life in a city bar a pocket crusade in an otherwise sterile world

A calling card flutters in the wind like a battle standard, defiant to the last, unrepentant beneath the crumbling victorian arches beside the railway line
Brutalised rebels now looking for a cause

This is the language of the fist and the boot
But hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight

Lets think seriously about this

What is the logical outcome of this means to an end, if indeed such an end exists in the first place?

The tribe is the essence, a localised struggle for identity, scarfs and banners are raised from the mud like pagan deitys, whilst europe is the **** ****, an organic imperium of hearts and minds

These allow(?) circles within circles, our blood within blood

They fight the diseased soul of Europe where the boundaries of the circles begin to expand and petty rivalries forgotten so that blood can truly unite, they join us in a cause of ****

This is the language of the fist and the boot
But hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight

This is the language of the fist and the boot
But hopes die in winter when it's too cold to fight