Not a horseman, nor a coach,
The horses are down the high pitched coast;
Only a weak whip-like reproach
Made the horses run from their own ghost.
Down the hill, the horses flying
Into the deep like doomed pegasuses’ hymen;
The neighs and waves are crying,
Replying the peaceful song of a fiendish siren.
Before the dark water turns to scarlet,
It paints a mad reflection of them horror haunted;
A demerited dark life-span mindset
That vanishes in the wild waves delighted.