Saint Upid and the March of Ice Golems

When moon is thin and hearths grow cold,
Saint Upid broods in anger bold.
For crowds adore all saints but he—
A thorn of spite in sanctity.

“They cheer for fools, they kneel for lies!
But not for me, the truly wise!
So let my ravens, sharp and black,
Bring word of how they stab my back!”

And so he writes with trembling hand,
Crooked letters none can stand.
Vile notes of grief, of rage and spite,
Sent by wings through misty night.

Fly, ravens, fly through the darkened skies,
Cry Upid’s woes where the village lies!
Yet none bow down to his wounded pride—
For truth spreads far and will not hide.

Not Carol’s endless, dull-toned shout,
Nor Bambi’s scrolls of legal clout,
Can soothe the saint’s eternal gripe—
A heart of flint, a grudge of type.

“If words fall flat, then ice shall speak!
I’ll freeze the bold, restrain the meek!
Let icy golems scour the lands—
And seize all those with doubtful hands!”

So frost was shaped in monstrous form,
Cold soldiers born of winter’s storm.
Yet peasants came with torch and roar,
Their fury shaking field and door.

“My lord, I’m here! My sword of straw—
A mighty blade of rustic awe!
My haystack troops, a fearsome sight,
Will guard your golems through the night!”

But straw meets flame and ice meets wrath,
As villagers storm every path.
For at their front stride sisters four—
So wise, so fierce, the land’s old lore.

Fly, courage, fly where the fearful break,
Let Upid see what hearts can make!
For straw and ice will melt and fall,
When truth and justice heed the call.

And once again, in smoke and soot,
Saint Upid stands with troubled foot.
No frost, nor fear, nor threats in air—
Can force the world his praise to bear.