Through everglades of pine forests,
beneath patterns of twigs and branches,
packs of wolves roam,
howling endlessly at a lit moon
contrasted in the darkness.
A shrill cry can be heard,
beyond thickets of bushes,
past ivy thorns and wild grass.
Farther from the river’s crossing
lies the stone covered bridge,
Crossing wooden gates of an ancient castle
a room lies dormant upon the carpeted hall.
Behold! There is no future,
for the merciless soul of misfortune
has brought a murder within its shade.
Shall our reign prosper, if by chance,