They say that when a wolf howls
he's crying from the abyss of his soul.
Weird how they've been wrong all along.
The perpetual distraction of
darkness and hope, loneliness and love.
No one tought them about the full moon madness.
When the darkest day comes on the Winter Solstice
and the moon is full, the only child of the night,
it will wreak havoc on his Mother
and you can hear its echoes through the wolves,
reflecting the sleepless nights
and the lust for the dawn.
Such tragedies still linger among the woods
where the black wolf is asking for his muse.
His howling is the power of luring, of enticing my senses
like the scent of wine, an aged fragnance of waiting patiently.
For you will always be a predator and I'll always be your prey.
he's crying from the abyss of his soul.
Weird how they've been wrong all along.
The perpetual distraction of
darkness and hope, loneliness and love.
No one tought them about the full moon madness.
When the darkest day comes on the Winter Solstice
and the moon is full, the only child of the night,
it will wreak havoc on his Mother
and you can hear its echoes through the wolves,
reflecting the sleepless nights
and the lust for the dawn.
Such tragedies still linger among the woods
where the black wolf is asking for his muse.
His howling is the power of luring, of enticing my senses
like the scent of wine, an aged fragnance of waiting patiently.
For you will always be a predator and I'll always be your prey.
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