What shall I offer you, lord, what homage,
who gave the creatures their ear?
I remember one Spring, in Russia …
It was evening, and at the first star
a white horse
crossed the village square, one fetlock hobbled
for a night alone in the field …
And how his ticking mane exactly followed
his great heart, its high-swung
drumbeat – cantering as if that crude shackle
did not exist … How the fountains of his blood
leapt! That horse knew the distances – how he sang,
and listened! Your myth-cycle
was closed in him. I’ll dedicate his image.