She runs from the horrid screams, the hollow cries;
tears streaming from her eyes.
Towards the North she runs, the burnt memories behind;
in a different state of mind.
Is truth the best thing life can offer,
or do lies feel much softer?
On broken feet she races,
seeing ghastly faces.
To the North she runs, the burnt memories behind;
in a different state of mind.
The winds stream along her side,
treating her to hopeless cries.
South sprays salt water in her eyes.
East rubs sand across her skin.
West is warm and scalds her thighs.
Only North, the soothing wind, banishes the other winds.
Materializing into wolves, the North pound