y

The crowned horse reared, neighed,
strained in every muscle, and bolted
from the stable;
from the manure-warm, manure-scented,
hay-sweet, humid wooden space,
from its cooped-up, dim, sometimes necessary
shelter.
It ran loose over the land, solitary,
strongly living, breathing well.

The vitality of the grass and dark forests,
the sun-song of the meadow-flowers,
the time going by, the hours
barely noticed; minutes don't count
nor seconds matter one bit
when there's a breath, a touch, something
that says, that tells you:
minerals, matter, cannot claim you,
nor coffins contain you,
time restrain you.

True life stays with us
wherever we stand or stray;
the mineral Earth is invisible, look:
sun and moon never leave
your sight, time vanishes;
though still you walk, will, think and feel,
still you churn the heavy soil,
follow the plough your crowned horse pulls,
sowing love in the dark clay furrows;

for no other reason
do we live.



If this makes you sad,
then you have yet to forget
yourself.