In twilight’s fold, the Bugul Noz does roam,
A lonely figure, wandering through the night,
His heart weighed down by sorrow\'s endless cry,
For though he seeks, he finds no kindred soul,
The forest sighs, his only friend and kin,
As he walks alone, forgotten in the wood.
Among the ancient trees within the wood,
Where shadows twist and creatures softly roam,
He dreams of peace, yet cannot find his kin,
His form too frightful, shunned by stars at night,
No mortal dares to meet his longing soul,
And so he listens to the wind’s soft cry.
The rivers weep in harmony, they cry,
Their tears a mirror of the darkened wood,
Each branch a hand that reaches for his soul,
But even here, where ancient spirits roam,
The Bugul Noz remains a ghost of night,
Too fearful to be loved by any kin.
He once had hope, a family, and kin,
But time erased their laughter, left the cry
Of silence in its place, an endless night,
That shrouded all the paths within the wood.
Now only shadows of the past will roam,
And haunt the corners of his withered soul.
He speaks to wolves, yet even they recoil,
Their golden eyes reflect his aching kin,
But none will answer to the voice that roams,
Their howls the only echo of his cry,
While mist creeps low through tangled vines of wood,
Enshrouding him, the shepherd of the night.
In every dusk, he listens for the night,
And waits for dawn to soothe his restless soul,
But light will never filter through the wood,
For shadows now have taken all his kin,
And darkness bears the weight of every cry
That falls upon the paths where phantoms roam.
Forever more, he roams through endless night,
The Bugul Noz, a cry without a soul,
Lost in the wood, forsaken by his kin.