All you do is talk of why I was true,
All of me is saying pleasant news you;
Almost far I push the leather at whim,
So to enhance my living at being dim.
Wonder can exist in shades of sorting out,
To keep quiet all silence and restore pout;
So all of us who always are in power, snow.
Where do you live? among the trees?
Are you forgotten, or upset? I give status
And confide in thee O Werewolf!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.