The moon, a silver coin in velvet skies,
Paints silver streaks on fur as darkness flies.
No fireflies blink, no hum of power lines,
Just ancient shadow where the wolf heart shines.
The pack, a ribbon woven through the trees,
Moves swift and silent on the chilling breeze.
But one among them, fur as grey as stone,
Bears not just burden, but a purpose known.
No guiding beacons, save the stars above,
No map but instinct, fueled by ancient love.
He sniffs the wind, a promise on the air,
A path to freedom, a place beyond despair.
Though shadows lengthen, and the dangers loom,
His heart beats steady, dispelling all the gloom.
He knows the land, the secrets it conceals,
And he will lead them, until freedom heals.
Wolves
© Copyright: Сергей Графов, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125033007822
Свидетельство о публикации №125033007822
Рецензии