<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478868" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Black Horse Rider</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">For George Anthell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Between them is the land of broken colors,<br>the land that makes a mock of him<br>with miles.<br>He rides, he rides,<br>he passes through the flat<br>chrome wheatfields<br>cut by the plough of the river makers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hills are aslant,<br>the clay torsos, the hills,<br>the clay has a red wound,<br>it gapes.<br>The white roots cry,<br>there is a mute susurrus in the dark:<br>poppies, poppies are you not<br>their pain?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With hoof on flint and flint<br>the black horse<br>rides: black wind, black<br>against fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The black horse crooks his<br>forelegs, the hills split open,<br>his nostrils pour flame.<br>Snort, snort through miles,<br>O charger, through rock.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He drinks the mezas,<br>he burns his thin knees over<br>braziers of grass:<br>Ride, ride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sky is spilt water,<br>a silver hello is flung<br>from star to star.<br>Black horse breaks<br>fire underfoot and now<br>his mane is a burnt city,<br>his mouth churned ocean,<br>foam on his belly a constellation.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At last he tramples<br>the sand<br>behemoth<br>Asleep before the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Pierre+Loving">Pierre Loving</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478868" data-title="The Black Horse Rider de Pierre Loving" data-description="For George Anthell Between them is the land of broken colors, the land that makes a mock of him with miles. He rides, he rides, he passes through the flat chrome wheatfields cut by the plough of the river makers. The hills are aslant, the clay t..."></div> </div> </div>

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