“A Song of the Werewolf Folk”

Published in Etchings and Odysseys, 1987.

Sink white fangs in the throat of Life,
Lap up the red that gushes
In the cold dark gloom of the bare black stones,
In the gorge where the black wind rushes.

Slink where the titan boulders poise
And the chasms grind thereunder,
Over the mountains black and bare
In the teeth of the brooding thunder.

Why should we wish for the fertile fields,
Valley and crystal fountain?
This is our doom—the hunger-trail,
The wolf and the storm-stalked mountain.

Over us stalk the bellowing gods
Where the dusk and the twilight sever;
Under their iron goatish hoofs
They crunch our skulls forever.

Mercy and hope and pity—all,
Bubbles the black crags sunder;
Hunger is all the gods have left
And the death that lurks thereunder.

Glut mad fangs in the blood of Life
To slake the thirst past sating,
Before the blind worms mouth our bones
And the vulture’s beak is grating.

“A Song of the Werewolf Folk”

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