Horses.
The silence of a place where there were once horses
is a mountain.
And I have seen by lightning that every mountain once
fell from the air ringing like the chime of an iron shoe.
High on the cloudy slope riders who long ago abandoned sadness,
leaving its rotting fences and its grapes to fall
have entered the past and are gazing into the next valley.
I do not see them cross over.
I see that I would be lying in the lightning
on an alp of death, and out of my eyes horsemen
will be riding.