February: Year-day 37

    
                                                
                                               
February: Year-day 37

Melancholy, what a black horse you are,
carrying me now to lands without light
where I'm more like shadows caught in a jar
than a being who bleeds, whose dreams are bright,
who for all his sadnesses learned to fly!
Stallion, don't so lead me to more regrets.
I'm in rags already from more than I
could rein through/ when we crossed/ your briared lets.

If my flesh and bones were to disappear
entire, and I truly became that dark
I feel I am, how could I take it, horse,
black, black horse; how could I handle the fear
when you, the world, I/ are but shades apart,
substanceless, in the curled void of remorse.

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