Horses down the beetling height

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.

Benyamin Bensalah

31.08.2019

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