Song of the Wild Hunt

In the night’s bone-deep silence,
They come.
Hoofbeats pounding like the heartbeat of the earth,
Antlers tearing through mist and shadow,
Eyes burning red as ember fire.
The Wild Hunt rides, fierce and eternal.

They speak no words, they need no chant,
Only the thrill of the chase,
Only the thrum of the drumbeat pulse,
Only the howl that splits the night
As the hounds bay, sharp as winter's breath.

The forest parts before them,
Branches bowing low, roots twisting away,
As they surge through the trees,
A thunderous tide of beast and spirit and shadow.
They are the hunters, the never-sleeping,
Bound to no master but the call of blood and storm.

Run, they say, run if you dare,
The night is ours and the hunt is wild.
No safe hearth, no locked door,
Can shield you when they pass.
For the Wild Hunt sees, the Wild Hunt knows,
Every trembling heart, every pulse that quickens.

They are the lost and the ancient,
The warrior souls untamed, unclaimed.
The fallen who rise, clad in frost and fog,
Galloping into the deepening night.

Hounds snap like winter’s teeth,
Horns echoing sharp as blades.
They are the rhythm of fear,
The pounding hooves, the flicker of shadows,
A dance as old as bone, as fierce as flame.

To see them is to remember—
A memory buried deep in the blood,
Of forests dark, of ancient rites,
Of primal fear, of wild delight.
For the Hunt rides on, through dusk and dawn,
Unbound, untamed, and ever wild.