The wolf no longer howls at the moon, It no longer rises or falls for him.

I wait on the whispering wind,

Because my soul Is there,

Blown by the basic billowing,

Of time before time allowed,

It is as old as night,

Black thereof,

Because it never knew light,

Before you shimmered nearby,

Feeling such wasteful glow,

It felt diminished,

But ever whole,

When you whisked away to another day,

And it felt that sweet black again,

It shivered,

It cried,

Then died all over again.