Perpetuum Mobile

a poem about horses and their suffering

A smell of burnt nails

spreads at the farrier workshop,

horse’s tail swirls

trying to get rid of gadflies.

The man brought him here,

tightened the rope

and bellows are now panting

heating a purple fire.

 

The horse would cry if he had tears

in this perpetual torture

with his guilt measured

by the size of his hoofs.

Still he stays tied to that pillar

while sledgehammers hit rhythmically

like on a church bell board.

Then he recovers to be harnessed

dragging the wagon

far from the green pasture

where he was biting the grass

in full moon light.

 

Now the road is sloping,

his body aches

wrapped in the scent of yellow hay.

Everything rests the same -

men, horse whips, stables and night’s Pegasus.