High in the Breton hills of old

There rules a beast supreme.

Pure white his massive bulk stands

Out a dream within a dream.

Beside a lake he stands alone,

Beneath the sky clear blue.

The power of his shoulders strong,

Mirrored clean in waters true.

His blood as red as the leaves

on the trees that nobly frame this scene.

This peace belies an ancient clash,

To sire new calves that in the spring will wean.

For to beget the big bulls fight

And clash together with great might.

It this the bull has battled and has one

The cows with which a different dance is done.

And now to solitude he will return 

For all good things must end.

So turns his lofty head toward the wood 

And to this way does wend.

And as he slips into the trees 

The first snowflake does fall.

And as it melts so does

He into the forest tall.