In the American wilds there are kings
and queens of the timberland,
their cubs born into a fraternity of
royalty,
crystal blue eyes shudder the dawn,
in thick forests and open tundra,
Native American spirits in the elements
in all seasons,
in harmony with the wolve's songs,
gently flowing eternally in the streams.

Oh, to run, run with their brethren of
the freedoms,
hunters and their prey churning up
the snow,
in the wilderness twilight they howl
in unison,
a woodland concert of the untamed
neath the ochre copper-edged moon,
their breath exhaled in a frosty mist.

Whatever you do, please don't kill
my wolves,
they are the sons and daughters of
nature's magnificence,
so many have been felled,
and my heart can't bear hearing
the roaring of the rifles anymore,
Oh, God no!!,
please don't pierce their bodies,
their souls,
Please, please, don't kill my wolves!!!