The beast, in solitude, who roams these woods,
of wisdom only he is led to know,
he wears a crown so heavy on his head,
and walks through autumn, summer, spring, and snow.

He is not seen, but wearily, is feared -
a figure hiding deeper in the minds,
the hunters and the people keep away,
although the beast is difficult to find.

On stilts, he wades and crosses riverbeds
a mind so keen, remembering the way.
The burden of his crown does not weigh him,
the wind invites him to a gentle sway.

So many moons have passed the monster's eyes -
he knows how rivers come to meet the lake;
So when the hunter settles down to aim,
the moose is still, and it is no mistake.