Through the fields of stars and through the black forest,
And always West, trailing behind them a glowing disk,
With their frizzy coats and gnarling smiles; the heroes try to **** them with meteors.
Scattered shards of stone-fire bits, and the ashen paw prints evading it,
…and the horse shines upon Lykaon’s grave.
Howling are the wolves of Phanes, their number growling with the rains.
And matching windy howling screams, with hoots and hollers inbetween…
The great horns point at the wolven den, from which Fenrir’s gaze sees all man’s sin.
And the flames of Cerberus lick the hori-zon;
…as he descends into Hell’s cave,
And the Drakon hungry for lycanthropes, he hunts the plains of Hades;
But the cunning beasts avoid him while calling out to the moon, over their master’s grave.
Calling out over Lykaon’s grave,
Cyclopean-cotton collects, a smoking pillar covering guide. Obscuring the light and now they are vexed, as the Lykos struck down, they have died.
And their flesh is what the Drakon does crave, as they are devoured on the stones of Lykaon’s grave,
…at that place known as Lykaon’s grave,
Struck down with asters
and gobbled-up,
over Lykaon’s grave.
Wyrd-wolven stars at night
…over Lykaon’s grave,
A werewolf at,
The entrance,
To the cave,
And that King,
…who stands before Lykaon’s grave.
