Last you see is horses.
Sprung with veins and numbers
branded on their backs. The grown ones
with muscles large as human children.
They graze under a bronze statue
of a soldier killed by sword (this is some years
before the musket’s introduction). Last you see
one foal rubs his face
against this statue’s base.
A mare near you reaches her own white head
down and last you hear’s
that grass, as it’s ripped out of the ground.
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