The one who walks the path of the wolf
And howls at the winter Moon
Is hunting for her half of his heart
Her
She of the mountains
And of the circling woodland dances
She who blows her angry wind through his snow-streaked
hair
She who put that strange light in his fierce eyes
She who plucked his heart from his measured ribs
And played her tunes upon those whitened bones
Shrill & sweet as pan-pipes
She called the tune and taught the dance
She gave birth to the fur & growl of him
She grew out of him
A glorious torturous flower
Divine madness, they call it
When She has burned his eyelids with stars
Spit fire through his nostrils
And ripped out half his heart
The half he cannot find
But can hear pounding in the silence of night.