Whispers from the Tent 

Horses

From the window I saw the horses.

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
was without light, the sky skyless. 

The air white like a moistened loaf.

From my window, I could see a deserted arena,
a circle bitten out by the teeth of winter.

All at once, led out by a single man,
10 horses were stepping, stepping into the snow.

Scarcely had they rippled into existence
like flame, than they filled the whole world of my eyes,
empty till now. Faultless, flaming,
they stepped like 10 gods on broad, clean hoofs,
their manes recalling a dream of salt spray.

Their rumps were globes, were oranges. 

Their colour was amber and honey, was on fire. 

Their necks were towers
carved from the stone of pride,
and in their furious eyes sheer energy
showed itself a prisoner inside them. 

And there, in the silence, at the mid-
point of the day, in a dirty, disgruntled winter,
the horses’ intense presence was blood,
was rhythm, was the beckoning light of all being. 

I saw, I saw, and seeing, I came to life.
There was the unwitting fountain, the dance of gold, the sky,
the fire that sprang to life in beautiful things. 

I have obliterated that gloomy Berlin winter.

I shall not forget the light from these horses.

– Pablo Neruda