| In the early dawn a stallion white
|
| Prances the hills in the morning light
|
| His bridle is painted with thunder and gold
|
| Orchids and dragons, pale knights of old
|
| He is the horse of the ages past
|
| And now the children run to see
|
| The stallion on the hill
|
| Bringing bags of apples
|
| And of clover they have filled
|
| And the white horse tells his stories
|
| Of the days now past and gone
|
| And the children stand a-wondering
|
| Believing every song
|
| How brightly glows the past
|
| When the sun is high comes a mare so red
|
| Trampling the graves of the living and dead
|
| Her mantle is heavy with mirrors and glass
|
| All is reflected when the red mare does pass
|
| She is the horse of the here and now
|
| And now there is confusion
|
| Amongst the children on the hill
|
| They cling to one another
|
| And no longer can be still
|
| While the red mare’s voice is trembling
|
| With a rare and mighty call
|
| The children start remembering
|
| The bearers and the pall
|
| And though their many-colored sweaters
|
| Are reflected in the glass
|
| And though the sun shines down upon them
|
| They are frightened in the grass
|
| How stark is the here and now
|
| When night does fall comes a stallion black
|
| So proud and tall he never looks back
|
| He wears him no emeralds, silver and gold
|
| Not even a covering to keep him from cold
|
| He is the horse of the years to come
|
| And I will get me down
|
| Before this steed upon my knees
|
| And sing to him the sorrows
|
| Of a thousand centuries
|
| And the children now will scatter
|
| As their mothers call them home
|
| For the sadness of the evening horse
|
| No child has ever known
|
| And I will hang about him
|
| A bell that’s never rung
|
| And thank him for the many words
|
| Which from his throat have never sprung
|
| And I’ll thank God and all the angels
|
| That the stallion of the evening
|
| The black horse of the future
|
| Comes to earth but has no tongue |