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The beauty of the horse is like passing clouds--
Hurried and when in gallop appear to be floating
Now
She lies screaming
Blood from worn ancestry puddles into mud
Plunged with arrows
The mighty can only descend
A dying rider with missing scalp
Watches as his soul dances around
As letters waiting to be opened
Try to find a new way home
Lifted with yellow dust
Carried by the warm wind
Man and beast
Now take in slow breathes
Exhaling the lie--
That once across the river
Safety is only a few miles away
And with a sincere war cry
The axe is leveled between their eyes
They now lay silent
As the smell of heaven--
Travels with passing clouds
Floating and hurried
copyright 2005
John
Turi |
