The cry of the night

I am the spirit of the wild wolf, who always cry to the blue cold moon at midnight, crying for my beloved to come and meet me under the palm tree. My eyes haunted by the pain of my death, yet I wait for my beloved to join me and be united with me. I dream of the day when my beloved will come to me, I’ll hold my beloved tightly and kiss my beloved tenderly, and cover my beloved with every deep breath of my love. My beloved, my beloved…
I am the spirit of the wild wolf, who always climb the Blue Mountains and the footsteps I leave are that of a stranger, strange to this world. When I had those painted breath left in me, they say I was wild and unkempt. I can see that they were not wild, but entangled in wildness, so dark and deep, and so easy to be devoured that they become savage themselves. They say I am wild because I wasn’t one of them, I belong to the woods, the forest and hills, my home, and they gave me the freedom to live peacefully, away from the savages. But, for my beloved, I joined this world, yet I was wild, they say. I died, unknown and unseen. Yet my beloved can see me for my beloved love me truly. So, I wait every night under the palm tree for my beloved to come and join me and when the blue moon smiles upon me I cry to her to sing praises for our mortal love. And this will continue when the spirit of my beloved will be free from that burning skeletal and join me in unison.
‘I’, the spirit of the wild wolf, always cry to the blue cold moon at midnight, crying for my beloved to come and meet me under the palm tree.