Bound

Aged golden eyes

Reflect the weary silence

Of the earth below.

The scent of pine and approaching winter

Stains the air.

Brisk, ethereal hands

Tangle themselves in silver fur.

The world seems so tranquil.

Untouchable.

A piercing cry penetrates

The still night air,

It's echo

Heard by only the deaf forest and faceless sky.

A mornful yet strong sound.

The cry of a born warrior.