My Temples Are Throbbing Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

My temples are throbbing —
Galloping, galloping:
Two riders, two riders,
Each dashes,
Each whirs,
Through skull and through head,
With horns and spurs.

One rider is white and the other is black,
Both armored like heroes, no slip and no slack.

The white one is joyous, the black — is in wrath.
The white is up front and the black — is like death.

Blackwhite and whiteblack — over trees, over gullies;
Whiteblack and blackwhite — like the hues of a tallis.

The white — with a sunny flag of a ranger,
The black one — danger, danger, danger.

The white one rides off in direction of light,
The black will extinguish each spark, he is night.

Clipclop and clipclop,
By destiny's will,
Two riders are riding
To a single sill.

To the only sill only one will arrive.
(The white one, the white?
The black one, the black?
The eyes are blinded, the bones crack.)

Rolled by the storm,
Two hoops in the rain —
Two riders that run
Through throbbing brain —
On and on.

And the one who arrives,
And the one who accedes —
Will be written
With blood
Over grasses and weeds.