Born to the ebon forest,
soft denizen of shaded copse,
once I thought I spotted her
vanishing in the forest green.
Again a tuft of raven fur,
a frill caught in blackberry,
hinted she passed this way.
Now the dusk is falling fast.
Tomorrow I will seek again.
As the Stygian fog rolls in,
I turn to find my way home
and hear her snappish bark.
The black fox is very near.
Her home is a trusted wood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem