In the early dawn a stallion white

prances the hills in the morning light.

His bridle is painted with thunder and gold,

orchids and dragons, pale knights of old.

He is the horse of the ages past.

And now the children run to see

the stallion on the hill,

bringing bags of apples

and of clover they have filled.

And the white horse tells his stories

of the days now past and gone

and the children stand a-wondering

believing every song.

How brightly glows the past.



When the sun is high comes a mare so red,

trampling the graves of the living and dead.

Her mantle is heavy with mirrors and glass,

all is reflected when the red mare does pass.

She is the horse of the here and now.

And now there is confusion

amongst the children on the hill.

They cling to one another

and no longer can be still.

While the red mare's voice is trembling

with a rare and mighty call,

the children start remembering

the bearers and the pall.

And though their many-colored sweaters

are reflected in the glass,

and though the sun shines down upon them,

they are frightened in the grass.

How stark is the here and now.





When night does fall comes a stallion black,

so proud and tall he never looks back.

He wears him no emeralds, silver and gold,

not even a covering to keep him from cold.

He is the horse of the years to come.

And I will get me down

before this steed upon my knees

and sing to him the sorrows

of a thousand centuries.

And the children now will scatter

as their mothers call them home,

for the sadness of the evening horse

no child has ever known.

And I will hang about him

a bell that's never rung

and thank him for the many words

which from his throat have never sprung.

And I'll thank God and all the angels

that the stallion of the evening,

the black horse of the future,

comes to earth but has no tongue