Your tale is long to tell,
As long as the river flows on,
Your coat is a blinding white,
As white as a lone star at night
You watch alone in the dark,
the trees, the fields the sky,
Only a deer disturbs the peace,
A soft rustle in the bracken.
A thin smoke drifts across the wind,
Conjuring memories of autumn,
Golden, burning leaves,
The black sky lights up red,
There are more deer now,
Running along untrodden paths,
You’ve seen this before.
Voices are shouting in the distance,
As the roar moves ever closer,
The stars become veiled with dense red smoke,
Thicker than any river mist you have seen.
The flames have arrived, licking at your feat,
For a while you glow the colour of your kind,
But the intensity of the heat is no match
for your cold home of stone.
The flames retreat into the night,
The last wisp of smoke is blown over the horizon,
Revealing the clear crisp sky,
The silence returns, you remain.
The white fox of Coppet hill
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.