The quiet of the night mocks my wretched song
The lone path is long winding and shadowy dark
Listen to the howling wolf; he too hides in brush alone
No fanged mate to share his captured bleeding meal
Tarring the flash with teeth snarling at no opponent
I walk on trembling in sorrow tread barren depths
The shaded tree tops hoot with flapping wings
I flinch withering immovable scared stark stiff
Yet I know I must climb out of this ravine gully
But hence there is little light here to saunter the route
I curl back the paisley coverlet only to coldness
Heart furls snaked in nostalgic repressed images
I pull over the same covering, curling a fetal position
Hoping to bite the dream of a different existence
By C.E. Hodgson
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem