We are not dead yet – even as scenes are born:
Mahin’s horses eat grass in the wilderness of the full moon On an autumn night,
All the horses of the Stone Age – still grazing
On the shapeless dynamo called earth. Looking for grass.
The scent of the stables floats in a crowded night breeze;
The piercing sound of a depressed straw
Falling through a steel mill;
The tea cups – asleep like kitten, in the
fuzzy grasp of mangy dogs
Turned into frost at the pice-restaurant over there
The calmness of time
Extinguishes the paraffin-lanterns at the round stables;
As the neolithic hush of the full moon bathes these horses.