Within the misty late year's forestIn times when slouds and trees stand emptyNine thousand wolves are gathered in the snowTo raise a long and greyish howl.Ebony black the earth went into the nightRe-awoken, covered now in silver whiteSoftly veiled by sparking moistureOut of the wolwes ' throats up to the sky.Lap of sunrise sweated by birth painsits child - a cold red fireballSharp silhouettes of old and tired eyesTheir cradle stuffed with leaves and fog.Impossible to march the shortest way todayCome forth tied up all in wolwes' breathEarly , therefore , the evening approachesit is the time of Winter Soltice.