the story of universal hardship
One last breath of life
moves silently across the frozen, barren plain.
And that breath turns to heated mist,
as he presses ever onward through his wintry, desperate pain.
There is frost upon the wolf,
and it digs deeper into his flesh, his blood, his soul.
The biting cold consumes his life,
the ice is circling now, the cold, it will demand its toll.
Yet, he hunts on, he will not die,
for the wolf, this is his life, his way, his fate.
His bone is forged of bitter dust,
his eyes, the fire from perdition's plate.
The wolf goes on, relentlessly,
stride by stride, mile by mile, hour by hour.
He must go on, he has no choice,
This hellish cold, he will survive, for survival is his power.