Wild Stallion

There, in the meadow, above the unmarked grave,
A wild stallion now stands
In his moorish purity,
To shed crystal tears onto the black chest,
The unmarked grave.
Yes, my friends,
Horses can cry too!...
The old Indian and the wild stallion were inseparable,
Like the children of the same mother,
Mother Freedom.
Whenever the young wind voices itself
In the craddle of freedom,
The wild stallion visits his friend's grave,
To shed crystal tears onto the black chest,
The unmarked grave,
Above which all passions stream and die down.
The wild stallion's whisper,
Reminiscent of a prayer,
Now silently sinks into a sacred peace.
Nothing can be heard,
Apart from the song of the vibrant heat.
His eyes are so human,
The eyes of a dreamer,
Now he listens to the wind's whisper,
And dreams above the black chest,
The unmarked grave,
To shed crystal tears onto the black chest,
Like crystal oysters.
The wild stallion and the old Shoshone
Were inseparable friends.
Are they less close now,
Because death tore them apart?...