The presents of a sleigh are numerous
Just so that ruinous stars die for being;
One April night a little stag is driven
To its death by the claws of a man strange in himself.
He is a werewolf of burden and bringing,
The conscience is so unique and sudden,
Its feelings require a motive, with hair
To be like nails after the sweets and air.
This werewolf inhabits the wastes of this dry land,
He is red in the mouth, redder in the colour of his skin,
Fur entails tentacles of worth and dishonour,
The very breeding grounds for the mind’s sin.
One is a tree compared to him or it,
Neutral people see a little dream or nightmare
And cause it to grow like a lipid,
Feeding feelings of hate and disaster.
My presents from the snow entail a tale,
This man of the wolves describes others with nights,
Without them, within them, tonight;
Liking the festivals of hate is all one lycanthrope.