Grey and furtive in the final twilight,

he

lopes by,

leaving     his spoor along the bank



of

this nameless river

that has quenched the thirst

of   his throat,



these      waters  that

repeat no stars.

Tonight,    the wolf

is a shade who runs    alone



and    searches   for his mate and feels

cold.

He   is

the last wolf

in  all  of  Angle-land.