"All the while, we carry on"
Remembering hayflies and itchy skin,
the stallion lay on the ground, ankle
burning with the shifting of broken
bones, a careless mistake that had
cost a lifetime of experience.
Cold steel touches his temple,
and he fights, but tied and struck,
a desperate and pathetic attempt.
He thinks of forgotten times, of fields
and plates and armors, wooden sticks
and steel daggers. The prospects of glory
as man rode out with one another, a
unspoken brotherhood as princes fought
and cried and bled with beggar, thief, shoemaker
as his people crumpled under them, given nothing
more than names.
He thinks of burning sun, the rope of carts tied
tautly around sunkissed skin. They wince at the sand hitting them,
pulling boulders and moving mountains to meet their quota. He spots
A days done work, beautiful architecture sprouting running children
Smiling women and haughty men, and sees them filled with pride, as one
Rears and neighs, her master kissing her face and caressing her mane.
He reflects on himself. Images of aging barns flickered
Through his mind. His chest heaved at the thought of fresh wheat
never grazing him again, never tasking the fresh green, becoming
Something forgotten, returning as fertilizer. He sheds a tear at
the farmer, and wonders if he has served his purpose well,
as man’s best friend.