The halo is tarnished.
The wings,
Once full of virgin feathers,
Are torn.
Tears blight a once
Unblemished face.
Schlechter Wolf,
You shone with blinding, brilliant light
And tried your best.
In some ways, you succeeded.
And halos may be polished,
Feathers replaced;
Tears can be dried.
Schlechter Wolf,
Of this take heed
And heart:
Your Doctor, whatever shall befall him,
Is for ever alive.
Because, Schlechter Wolf, of this:
How could something ever die
When there is someone left who remembers?
