The heavy mist is on the trees,
A-hanging in the morning sky
Through which we run; not only I,
But those who follow in my steps
Across the frozen winter ground.
The echo of their clarion sound
Is deafening my ears.
The quickened pulse and gasping breath
Are mine amid the growing din;
My blood is pure adrenalin.
My senses heighten, hear the call.
Across the day the hunter moves
As close behind the flailing hooves
Still thunder in my wake.
And so it is these towering trees
That stand aloft, aloof and tall,
Salute the one about to fall.
The mist is growing colder now.
The running eyes and gasping breath
Are quickened in the jaws of death
That slaver as they bay
And carry me away...

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS