Below the tree line,
love ran its rank course,
in hungry silence, with diligence,
where all are meat, and none are free,
to the lone wolf prowling,
through the pines,
pure of heart, and lovers dreams,
over many a distant hill he roams,
to suit his sole intelligence,
with comforts none, he speaks to me.

Here amongst these rolling hills,
sharing none other's love or trust,
resigned to chase his dimming suns,
with knowledge of his end to come.
None should know such lonely thoughts,
as this simple creature, filled with light,
chasing always loves request,
to find his longing in the night.
Howling deeds that others shun,
Silver drops of heartache shimmer,
from jaws of silent moonlight come,
glowing with the faintest glimmer,
of peaceful evenings left undone.

Such longing desires for others,
those friends, enemies, lovers,
they cannot see above,
such chilly hills where solitude lives,
Lone wolves run free and live apart,
They have no brothers,
No friends, no lovers,
to claim their lonely wandering heart,
the grimmest, coldest winds that blow,
are all they need to nourish and feed,
their hunger wandering cold,
and lean among the silent trees.