The Wolf

The strong wind is like a howling wolf

Singing a carol to the crescent moon

The bow shaped silver sitting in the sky

In upright position he gives his tune

Gazing at the grey moon in every chant

Pushing materials away in his hymn

The fierce air rushing through the wilderness

Giving whispering trees the strength to sing

Hunting to feed on the flesh of others

Often in the forest hunting in packs

The cruel wind does not want to relax

But prowl the land like a deadly canine