Tapestry of Wolves
There are such phantoms of the night,
As twilight shadows, unperceived,
That hunt alone with spectral eyes,
That stalk among the living, sole.
Between the dusk and solemn dawn,
Among the revenants and wraiths,
Must flash the eyes of eventide,
Must rest the spirit of the moon.
In starlit fields of winter snow,
The hunter waits among the dark,
His silver form and frozen veil,
His silent blizzard in the night.
He is the watchman of the dusk,
He is but smoke among the mist,
Within the corner of your eye,
The place you never dare to look.
There is a call from the abyss,
That chases down the midnight prey,
That beckons to the moon, forlorn,
A sorrow-cry of spectral grace.
And when the dawn shall burn the land,
No more shall twilight howl in woe,
But every wraith shall be at peace,
At rest, the spirit of the moon.