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The Wolf

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The wolf howls his last breath;
looks at his last moon.
The wolf dies a silent death
on this snowy late afternoon.

All those who pass by
quicken up their pace.
With barely a print in the new fallen snow,
none stop to see the face;

The face of this young wolf
with wisdom past his years.
If said people were to look
they would still see the tears.

For the wolfs heart both young and old
and slowly rotting away
was broken not too long ago
on that very same sad day.



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poetryislife444 said...
Jan. 7, 2011 at 9:39 am:
I love wolves and this is a very touching piece. well don on this poem. :)
 
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lion720 said...
Sept. 17, 2010 at 7:33 pm:
  I have read some absoluetly beautiful peices of poetry and I have to say this equals up to those poems pretty well.
 
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