He comes through the streets
under the full moon,
a horse killed
in an ancient battle.
His dull hooves. . .
he trembles, he slips,
gives a gloomy neigh
with his distant voice.
At the leaden corner
of the barricade
he stops with empty eyes
can hear his slow tread,
through deserted streets
and through ruined squares.
José María Eguren
There’s no moon—
last night, I came here
driving a horse.
It is true that I believed in the immense privilege of living.
Each step ampliﬁed in me old but always mobile adorations.
It was a tree, the night, whole forests of roads,
or the sky and its troubled life, certainly the sun.
One day I saw solitude.
At the top of hill, a horse, alone, immobile, was planted in an arrested universe.
So my love, suspended in time, gathered to itself in one instant its petriﬁed memory.
Life and death completed each other, all doors open to possible prolongations.
For once, without sharing in the meaning of things, I saw.
I isolated my vision, enlarging its borders inﬁnitely.
I left for later the concern of seeing what one was to see.
But who could maintain that the promises had been kept?