The night winds sing,
the chorus rings through
the dead hour of the valley.
Hear it, the music of the wolf’s pain.

Against the backdrop of the new moon,
high on an icy blue rocky ridge
with the pine trees stabbing the black sky,
there shivers the weeping wolf.

This day he has lost
two precious things...

Hunters came bearing muskets,
bayonets and torches.
They rampaged through the wood
shooting everything that moved.
The air hung heavy with the stink
of the musket shot.

The wolf’s mate,
a beauty amongst beauties,
had been suckling her pup
when a hunter’s sabre silently sliced
through her fur
and cleaved her silky shoulder.

Death silenced her
and snatched away her pup.