Like Wind Moving Through Darkness
I run as the horses run; their desire is my own
Wild horses ragged with animal desire go tearing through my dreams at night.
Their bodies are like wind moving through darkness.
They are a blur of rippling muscles and a throng of rearing heads and waving manes.
They gallop through vast night-meadows illumined beneath distant moons, their flared nostrils evacuating hot breath.
They see with eyes that are full of the dark and turbulent complexities that I recognise as my own, and as those of the world.
The edges of these dreams are imperceptible and faded, with no sense of source nor destination; but later, when I wake, the rhythmic beating of hooves as the horses travel endlessly through the hinterlands of my subconscious will stay with me all across the day.
Morning stands on the other side of twilight, but their desire for living is the stronger force. It is the unyielding, invisible vitality that drives them, like a whip, ever onwards through the night.
There is no mercy in living as we do (always there are bombs and clearances of trees). In its place there are instead the shifting tides of beauty and sorrow; tides that merge in time to form the vast and infinite love that threads all of life together.
Morning presses against the window with its relief of light, but it does not dispel the passion for living, only further enlivens the enormity of the hunger. So in waking as in sleep.
I run as the horses run; their desire is my own. I have no source nor destination, only the immensity of an urge to continue onwards, pressing always toward the unknown.
