When the day goes to sleep
and twilight gathers,
then mountain and forest wait
for him to sing the night song.
Human or bear or imp or gnome -
his tune doesn't make a distinction,
gallant or evil, beastly or beautiful -
his lullaby rings out for all.
The old wolf comes every night.
Bathed in the starlight
he sings, as he always did,
from his rock high above the forest.
And long before he was,
the song resounded at the end of each day,
it will resound every night, eternally,
for whosoever might then listen.
He sings of young spring days,
warm rainfalls, showers of blossoms,
sun, joy, childhood, closeness,
He sings of clear summer nights,
old legends, campfires,
birds, freedom, midday heat,
discovery, youth, adventures.
He sings of fall and the first cold,
fog, ripeness, colorful trees,
age, farewells, bare branches,
finally of winter dreams.
Sings on of frost, of snow and death,
but also of the new spring
that, waiting, sleeps under the ice,
and thus, in singing, he closes the circle.
The Wolf Song, which I, too, now sing
isn't blown away by time,
it stays forever, like the starry sky
because its truth never withers.
It travels along the circle of life,
passes through each age,
handed on as a continual legacy -
the chant of eternity.
And if it does succumbs to time,
should text and word be lost -
in every death, in every life
it will gently linger on.
Thus, the wolf stands and sings his song,
whatever the day has brought.
Dreaming, mountain and forest listen,
until it fades into the night.
(1995. Inspired by Astrid Lindgren's 'Ronia the Robber's Daughter'.)