The unyoked Sun's horses
wander on the land,
their manes entangled
in wild pear-trees,
their hooves sunk
in rain-swollen clay.
They can't eat this bitter grass,
they can't drink
this heavy water,
they neigh and neigh…
Their manes, combed by shining hands,
are caught in wild pear-trees,
their hooves, washed in gold-rimmed basins,
are smeared with clay.
The cooing of pigeons
cuts their ears,
the drops of ceasing rain
burn their skin:
each eye like a polished mirror
filled with time and sky,
each mane like the curved harp
of a beheaded player.