Beneath the moon in mountain shade,
Where law is kept and debt is paid,
The Great Owl waits, with ancient skill
The judge of those who hunt and kill.

They called the Owl, the Watcher grim,
To keep control through fear of him.

Not beast, not bird, but judgment's face,
He keeps law in this sacred place.

One hunter mocked the tribal rites,
With poisoned steel and firelight.
He took more than the spirits gave,
He killed for sport, not life to save.

And perched above, the Horned One stared,
Then spoke in voice of wind and prayer:
"You hunt, you take, with no remorse,
Now live forever with my curse."

Now every dusk, with blood-red beak,
The hunter flies, but cannot speak.
A soul turned owl, condemned to roam
No rest, no kin, no love, no home.