The twilight is bending down above the horse herd
And their pasterns are coloured with gold,
Grey horsehair is flowing against the sun
When the stallions wildly run.
To white fire they are very similar,
Beating with hooves the plains scarred and old,
Hunting the light and day which’re wholy gone
And skipping the past one by one.

Like blowing of the bells
Sounds the runaway rythm of the heart,
From the nostrils go puffs of breath in dash
When the white-silver wave comes rash.
With a wild neighing she crosses the air,
Leaving in the face of wind an awful gash
And uplifting the dreams from ash.

The dreams about freedom and glory.