Ghostly ebony horses silently plodding in dust along the
slumbering mountains,
in dreams of my concealed thoughts,
the horses' dead eyes haunt
even the recesses, the yielding,
the insane reaches of my mind,
as descending melancholy
imprisons me with its blackness,
its poetic dirge, its deep knells.

A phantom pall covered coffin
pulled by these gaunt specter
horses,
this bier in shadows- who is
bourne in it ?
my mortal, it is fragments of
my heart,
which could no longer bear
the loss of the lives from-
world hunger and war.