They tightly embrace their burning pride.
Nothing on earth to compare their eternal eyes,
while they gracefully hunt in the silent night.
Their call sounds in the forests and flies,
between the shadows of monumental trees,
while they are running on autumn's leaves.
Not the clear winter's sky nor the moon's light,
may challenge the infinite elegance of their lifes,
while they rest in tranquil morning mists so bright,
their ongoing fate drives them to survive.
What mortal mind can measure their astral souls?
Are we to civilized to recognize their goals?
Their struggle in the wilderness to be free.
The wolves eye to be aware of worlds that I can't see.