The wolf pack stands on the tall, cold, mountain,
Looking out over the winter landscape.
They listen closely… what stands beyond them?
Old Whitenose, the chief, looks for roads to take.
The silence is not broken by snowfall,
Its icey crystals fall strong, thick and fast.
With a howl, the wolves begin their long prowl.
They look for a deer for their late repast.
Swiftly and elegantly they all run,
Across the cold and barren snowy land.
Panting they rest when their labour is done.
Yet… could even these be tamed by human hand?
The wolves respect the spirit in some men,
Longing for a king that will come again.