My people see him as helpless prey. They'll kill him if he crosses their patrol. Our dooms are different. The wolf is on one island, I on another. His is a prison, cut off by pools and fens. There on that isle men thirst for blood. They'll kill him if he crosses their patrol. Our dooms are different. I am dogged by distant dreams of my wolf. When the weather was wet and I sat whimpering, The warleader came and wound his arms around me. It half felt heavenly, but hateful too. Wolf, my wolf, it is this wanting and Your seldom coming that have made me sick, A mournful mood, not missed meals. Hear it can you, Eadwacer? Our cursed cub Borne off to the woods by the wolf. Easily torn apart what ties ne'er really bound Our tale together.
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