Where whispers whisper in deep dark wood,
Where shadows creep, and nothing’s good,
Where winds howl low and old spirits sigh,
A hunger stirs beneath a dark dark sky.
In Mother Moon’s cold silvered light,
A growl, an echo, swallows the night.
Eyes hooded black, jaws hanging slack
The famine beast comes, relentless and withered
Its skin stretched tight, its all bone and all claw,
As it prowls black forests, lean and raw.
It feeds on the lost, those who stray too deep,
Guided by hunger, cursing the weak.
Its voice rasps like dry fallen leaves,
"Come closer, come near," it croons in the dark,
"Feel the frost in my soul, share my empty heart."
Once it finds you, there’s no return,
You’ll feast on your own marrow, your own sinew, your own bone—
And, oh lost child, soon you will learn,
A hunger that gnaws, forever unfed,
Cursed you will wander, neither living nor dead.
In the deep dark wood where no faery dares,
Listen for whispers in unseasonable airs.
For in shadowed forests where darkness lays,
All firelight flickers, cold and gray.
There, there is only night, never warm summer days—
Beware the old hunger, forever stalking its prey.
