Standing alone,
the white stag returns,
to forests it once called home.

Within these branches,
thick and strong,
he finds himself at odds.

For where lies then,
his friend of old?
Where doth the black wolf run?

In times long past,
when songs and stories told,
They oft did meet below.

These sacred branches,
now lie quiet,
absent of the howl.

The once great stag,
holds proud head high,
To wait through fair and foul.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Valnuary, in the year 791 AF.