In the American wilds there is
kings and queens of the timberland,
their pups born into a fraternity of royalty,
Crystal blue eyes shudder the dawn,
in thick forests and open tundra
Native American songs are in the wind
in all seasons,
gently flowing musically in the streams.
Oh, to run, run with their brethren,
take down the elk in a choreography
of hunters and prey churning up the snow,
At twilight they howl in unison,
a woodland concert of the untamed
'neath the ochre moon,
their breath exhaled in a frosty mist.
Whatever you do,
please don't kill my wolves,
so many have been felled,
and my heart can't bear
hearing the roaring of the guns,
Oh, God, no!, please don't
pierce their bodies, their souls,
Please, please, don't kill my wolves!
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