For the Children are dead

Let me open with something morbid and hopefully encouraging thought...

Eaves overhead like tangled webs
against a dark frozen sky,
mantled by the rough edges of furry pines and snow.

Stretched beneath the shuttered world
relieved of ordeals and weight,
the Children lie in sweet embrace,
asleep in silence and dream.

Like crimson blood her little dress
pooled around her little form,
and in the bright of the shafted moon
catch glimmer does his hair.

Alone they sleep through night's cold mourning,
A-dream
with sugar biscuit houses filled with gingerbread,
And on the morrow the hunter will find them;
too late,
for the Children are dead.