In his arrogance, he saddles the horse
beneath the cruelty of his reason,
and deigns to ride.
He cannot let meadows be meadows,
and places smoothed stones on them,
walls and towers,
towns which he calls beautiful,
where he hoards precious things,
vases in the shape of girls and boys,
amulets that ward off death.
And he imagines a sky with eyes,
and in its terrible gaze
grows proud and secretive all at once,
and builds bronze equestrian statues
for the sentinel clouds.
But the sky is sky, and the bronze is bronze,
while the horse burdened by the man
walks in laboured circles
for the finery of the bored crowds.