You’ll live, but I’ll not; perhaps,
The final turn is that.
Oh, how strongly grabs us
The secret plot of fate.
They differently shot us:
Each creature has its lot,
Each has its order, robust,—
A wolf is always shot.
In freedom, wolves are grown,
But deal with them is short:
In grass, in ice, in snow,—
A wolf is always shot.
Don’t cry, oh, friend my dear,
If, in the hot or cold,
From tracks of wolves, you’ll hear
My desperate recall.