The wolf
howls his question to the heavens

When?

When will the snow fall?
When will I hear the spring birds call?
When will I see my young?
When will I see them skinned, on a peg to be hung?
When will the moon come down from the sky?
When will amongst her brethren she lie?
When will men through their clouded eyes finally see?
When will the war end - this battle of friend against friend, me against me?

The heavens answer him not,
but the wolf's howl is unending.
Many a fight the wolf has fought,
and to the sky's stony silence, he has no intention of bending.

When?

When are the lakes going to freeze?
When are the forests going to be stirred by a summer breeze?
When are the wild places going to die?
When are men going to fall from their throne on high?

When?

The wolf stands,
silence his only answer.
Snow falls across the frozen lands.
Flakes glisten in his fur.
Through the icy stillness,
he hears not a sound.
The wolf must confess;
his spirit was lost, and is not yet found.

When?

When will the stars leave the sky?
When will the world hear nature's last cry?
When will my lament be more than a wolf's sigh?