The chill of winter’s breath draws near,

It is sharp as the man’s own blade.

Silver gleams from reflecting snow,

Delicate as a harp to the untrained ear.

A beautiful weapon if just for show,

Yet lethal in the hands of a man.

The golden hilt is cold to the touch,

But the man would never dare let it go.

The wolf bares its teeth,

Sharper than any sword.

It growls, starting to retreat.

The man deserves no relief.

Brothers and sisters lost,

All by the hand of one man.

Their bodies lie still in snow,

And the wolf’s eyes turned to frost.

Fury triumphs as reason succumbs.

The wolf's fangs pierce the tender flesh.

The man howls, striking with metal's might.

Two lives end, as silence hums.