The white horse with,
its feathery mane,
eyes of black night,
gallops on the soft snow,
which is the tapestry,
covering the treasure chest,
of hidden, unseen miracles.
the angel without wings,
from heaven, The pacifist,
in a lonely battlefield,
rides its chariot,
in all the directions,
searching for nothing,
aiming for nothing.
the snowman in the solliloquy,
seldom wonders how many,
horses, pads its foot,
on the delicate snow,
without leaving a trace........................
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An old Indian trick of the wild west