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Peasants, gather around, come,

Witness the birth

The wolfmother finally bore the seed,

The elder man once planted

Two were the cries that echoed

in the frozen dead of the night

One was the breath of sleep,

as sun carried the day that broke

Into the halls of the immortal forts,

the child was taught of forgiveness.

As a myth that was, a poem, a hymn,

Tragedies of the naive.

Eyes to the moon, restless legs

And the eager caress of the tongue on the fangs,

Tonight he ventures forth,

Tonight he hunts.