Within the misty late year's forest
In times when slouds and trees stand empty
Nine thousand wolves are gathered in the snow
To raise a long and greyish howl.
Ebony black the earth went into the night
Re-awoken, covered now in silver white
Softly veiled by sparking moisture
Out of the wolwes ' throats up to the sky.
Lap of sunrise sweated by birth pains
its child - a cold red fireball
Sharp silhouettes of old and tired eyes
Their cradle stuffed with leaves and fog.
Impossible to march the shortest way today