The cry of the wolf

Woods of silver, a hidden sight
Lures behind the trees
Among the shadows of night
A silent roar in a breeze

Mountains of silver, a frozen howl
A call to others of his kind
To share his nightly prowl
But no one to find

Eyes of gold, a stolen tear
Colours the ground red
A cry he can not hear
Now everyone is dead

© 2013 Varja Linnea Askeland all rights reserved

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