Where pyramid peaks, cut by glaciers and time,
hold deadly mystique to the people who climb.
Comes a story of cold, and of lonely survival.
Like the fable of old with Red Riding Hood's rival.
Composed by the Orchestra of the Night.

On ice-blue, pine covered mounds,
came deep, doleful, ambient sounds.
They ached and moaned in metallic tones.
A cold that penetrates flesh and bone.
And in the night, she slept alone.

Morning broke. . .  so crisp and clear.
The roar of the river was all she could hear.
So down on the river, she drank from her water;
licking the fluid, that's home to the otter.
For this was the Druid, the last wolven daughter.

A pilgrim of dells, of peaks, gulch, and glade,
in the deep, muted wells of solitude's shade.
She left where she dwelt when galaxies fade;
a journey that knelled her life ending raid.
White rivers to ford, and slopes to glissade.

As the diamond dust caught the glare
of the setting sun's scarlet flare,
long notes of patience and worth,
filled the folds of the frozen earth.
For quiet hours are lonely ones.

But twinkling lights from a farmhouse below,
beckoned the wolf on the barren plateau,
down from the velveteen gullies of snow,
out from the evergreen keeps of shadow.
Barbwire fence made a twang like a bow.

But these are mere echoes of sounds from the past--
a record in writing that never can last.
For a rancher would run, from his home with a gun,
puking verses of curses, for that which was done;
and beauty would die, with the glint of her eye.

Neither man nor beast had wanted this end,
but the rancher was there to hotly defend.
And the she-wolf was wise, but not very fast.
She stumbled and fell, shortly after the blast.
Then ran a ways further, succumbing at last.

Trip,
stumble,
scramble,
run,
and crawl.