Yet it’s cold in the plains of white.

Fallen star to wish upon they think,

Yet it’s already fallen past my sight.

A sun setting majestic,

Yet it’s but just a memory of fine times.

A coyote singing, yet it’s only

A distant echo in my mind.

And yet, in the snow drifts of mountains tops

There is a storm brewing.

In the hollow, sightless heart

There is a soul moving.

In the glory of sun setting

There is a beam to my dream.

And in the night there is a song

From the coyotes that sing.