In the back alley of a lost borough
A jet black wildcat adorned with silver and gems
Meets with a company of wolves

The aroma of chamomile and lavender
Lay heavy in the air

The north winds arrive
Questioning their summons
But remain in an army of dust devils

A shaman reveals himself

The group proceeds out into a ground cloud
Chanting archaic languages
To the banshee’s of dying beliefs