The wolf howled to the moon
As has been seen in countless nights
It walks always to and fro with gloom
Scouring the night what he scoured at noon
Finding nothing each time
He, he is free of that prejudice
A story only ever told tragically
Not content but in blind bliss
So that nothing ever he will miss
From this vast and enchanting valley
A scream enclosed within itself
Only heard by those who needn’t listen
The trunks, leaves, rocks and nothing else
Having nothing to fear at the strike of twelve
On the river at the cascade whose tears glisten
Oh the irony of useless pains
Come about to torment the heart
In all those rivers the ocean can’t drain
But will forever try to tame
And in which he will will never take part
It’s the silence most churning
As the wolf retires once again
Defeat in the valley; burning
It will every morning
And the wolf will howl to it.
l.a.
The Wolf’s Valley
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