Poetry
Wolves
The night is approaching the frozen landscape
Stars in their pale, agonising colours,
The raw, wintery, fallen lake,
Pine-trees in their hungry rows.
The slow snowing darkness clicks a switch;
The machinery of wolves is coming alive,
The empty stomachs wretched,
Bitten by the long nights
Of standing over a frozen carcass.
They stretch their anguished voices,
Sing their prayers into the moon,
To their fathers in the holy ground,
Still alive in the flesh of their cubs,
Asking for a new fury.
Joop Bersee
