Wolves of Arkland

On winter winds as midnight falls
in moaning howls,  with breath of white
that rise to heaven like a prayer
they wait the sun's redeeming light.

Where blood ran red on snowy banks
before the day had faded on
the Wolves of Arkland battled foe
and now they mourn their soldiers gone.

And where the ripped and wounded lie
beneath the earth in dens of old
the able tend, and death awaits
the ones who fall to stillness, cold.

The warriors stand on the path
to guard the night, their voices raised
in offerings of victory;
the Wolves of Arkland lift their praise
above the icy waters where
the silver stars adorn the sky
of velvet black and Luna glows
in sweet vanilla hues on high.

Then as the day anew comes dawning
with flames, in bursts of coral light,
the winter winds, the hymns of sorrow
have passed into the distant night.