The white mare,
a breath of dawn against the endless fields,
her coat,
a canvas of sunlit snow,
life shimmering in her every stride.
She is the whisper of spring,
the promise held,
in a budding rose,
the laughter,
echoing through summer days.
She dances,
a ribbon of hope unbound,
across meadows painted with wildflower hues,
her hooves striking sparks of joy,
a symphony of burgeoning, unending.
But from the shadowed edge of existence,
he watches,
the black stallion,
death roiling in his midnight eyes.
His mane,
a storm cloud,
framing a face,
carved from obsidian
and regret.
He is the hush
that falls on autumn leaves,
the chilling grip of winter's fist,
the silent promise
of return to earth.
He moves,
a phantom
woven from night,
a counterpoint
to the white mare's grace.
He longs to join her dance,
to feel the warmth of life
beneath his hooves,
but an invisible barrier
holds him back.
They circle,
eternally bound
yet separated,
life and death
in an unending ballet.
She leaps and twirls,
bathed in golden light,
he looms and shadows,
shrouded
in the dim.
One breathes
with the vibrant pulse
of being,
the other awaits
the stillness of surrender.
They are forever close,
yet never touching,
a poignant reminder
etched on the vast
canvas of time.
The white mare,
a beacon against the encroaching dark,
the black stallion,
a somber guardian
of its mysteries.
And so they dance,
on and on,
until the end of all things.