In a long valley of howls
the she-wolf stares at moons obscure
the senses spray the nightly cold
her belly sore from steady hunger

and in the choir her screams lay silent
as in her dreams the lights are pale
the very night she's leaning fragile
her meaning aches at blank pretenders

and she would yell, a constant note
that none of them trumpets would answer
and as the breeze commands a still
the fleeting movement of the whirl
would stop,

for her to brace the painted air
and recollect memories ignored,
another night in the long valley
when time has set down like a sun.

The End

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