Wolf Pup

He was born brave, despite what you might think.

With a mouth of teeth meant to break some small animal’s bones

And a pair of eyes so pathetically wet;

If he had been a common dog, would you have looked at him softer?

They are rough, the hands of fate that shape us.

I have never seen a loneliness as deep as the one that runs in this well.

He was born in summer under a starless night sky,

With a conscience, despite what you might think.

He was born curious, childish and small,

He was born not knowing anything at all,

And it matters not that bolts from heavens came,

It matters not the greatness he foresaw.

But they are rough, the hands of fate,

Especially when they stroke his thick grey fur,

When they run their fingers behind his ears,

When they buzz like wind between the meadow's grasses,

And when they lick him clean with his mother's tongue.

Especially then – then even more so.