Het Poema moved through the snow

                         Fierce like a great windstorm

                                             Hiding from the barbaric hunter

Fatal like a shotgun

                    Moving swiftly as the ocean

                                              On a stormy night

But Het Poema is quick

                      And the hunter is lunch

                                               His weapon  left in the cold winter snow

And his blood

                To be unnoticed

                               For an eternity