Blood of the Wolves

Thousands the howls that cold eerie night
The blood of the wolves; it burns so bright
The wolves they cry and moan in pain.
Their blood is washed away by the tears of rain.
They lay there still; they do not make a sound.
Their faces lay cold on the frozen ground.
The blood has run dry; they are gone.
Nevermore will we hear their song.
This is what the man has become.
A savage killer, second to none.
Their blood stay etched in the ground.
A solid reminder of the killers we have found.
In the wind, I can still hear their howls.
At least they are safe from man now.