The tale is told of swordman's blade,
A mighty sword in warrior's hand,
The sword called here as "Frozen Wolf,"
Held by wand'ring wolven warrior.

"Nature's Wanderers"

The woods are quiet: nature's sounds
Are all one hears from all around.
A silent hunter prowls through here,
The gray wolf prowls without a fear.

Not far from there, a swordsman stands,
Whose shoes have tread from distant lands.
All that he owns within his sack,
And a sheathed sword upon his back.

An autumn breaze knocks off a leaf,
And slowly sings a song of grief.
The whistling sound cuts through to bone,
And makes one feel so all alone.

The setting sun sets land ablaze,
The lands cools down o'er shorter days.
Soon winter's snow shall come again,
Jack Frost's white quill shall frost the glen.

But here, for now, the land burns red,
As if some great beast here had bled
Within the wake of some great fight,
Before it fades with the coming night.

The swordsman knows that night comes fast,
And knows to camp before the last
Rays of sunlight light up the sky.
He sets his pack with weary sigh.

And that is when their paths do cross,
Within this glen now green with moss.
The wolf and sword, two hunters' gaze
See eye to eye in failing rays.

They stand but for a moment there,
Their eyes locked in a frozen stare.
And then it ends, and they go on.
As equals met, not battle won.