the lone wolf in the pack froze
in the chilling year-round winter
keen is his skin to smell the thorns
dodging scratches, shield worn;
yet swords of tongues lash deep,
touching his holy ground of conceit
you can hear his eyes speak tears,
though dry they were and uncried
and the ears are pricked and alert
for the next sound to watch closely
his nose tastes the warnings bitter
for city guards, paving bloody roads
On the rugged cliffs of the island,
a lonely wolf
looks down to the shore below–
shining and dazzling, kissed
by the moonbeams.
The wolf scanned the vastness
of the sea, then lifts its head
up to the moon…
to cry a song
to that beautiful moon.
But no voice came out,
for it has lost its voice–
Drowned in battles fought in the days
when the beat of the kill
was loud in the world of beasts.
The moon in her yellow splendor
saw the sorrowful state of the wolf;
‘Tis the same creature
that sings tales to me,
speaks to me
–thought the moon.
That night, it was she who howled
for the wolf.