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The Wild Hunt

Softly flow the raindrops, glistening jewels of wonder,
Muted rumbles from afar, the distant voice of thunder.
Soothing the soul and refreshing the mind;
Lightning flares, and for an instant I am blind.

The tempo increases; the rain becomes a stinging lash.
Again the lightning flares, across the sky a ragged gash.
Thunder booms, a rolling drumbeat of sound,
Or perhaps the baying of some gigantic, celestial hound.

What demonic hunter stalks the midnight skies?
What frightened prey before him swiftly flies?
Storm sirens wail, or is it hunter's horn?
I lie sleepless in my bed, and await the coming morn.

Winds howl in fury as they curl 'round my home,
Or do lost souls beg for mercy from jaws flecked with foam?
The Wild Hunt it was called, I recall with shuddering dread,
The ghostly hunter and his hounds, pursuing the lost dead.

Forever forced to flee the relentless, hell-born pack,
Always praying, searching for their path back.
If the unwary is ever caught in the Wild Hunt's path,
They too must join the quarry, and flee the hunter's wrath.

So if ever you go wandering, amidst a stormy night,
And hear a wailing horn that fills your heart with fright,
Heed well this warning, beware the hell dog's master,
Lest YOU must join the Wild Hunt, fleeing ever faster…

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