I miss wet steam of his nostrils.
That wise horse loved me.
There were (i)logic moves like on a chess board between us.

The non-sight would grope your senses
Your sincere strolls besides the odd poplars
Bobbed the obsolete romance
With the whites from the balcony
Black shoes with shoelaces / my too wise unicorn /

The apricots moan of unrepeatable burden
I'm afraid I still fear That Don Quixote will die
On a magical day in September
And that wise horse…he'll die with his eyes wide open
Smelling the bitter seaweed.

The horse submitted to being shoed
His mane plaited with ten ribbons
Was crying not to sacrifice a workhorse
All butchers at the slaughterhouse smell of lies or disease
Among us the horses run in their last race
There is no finishing line the winner will be shot for sure.

The horse is running with his wet nostrils
Love summer are burning at reticent flames
The pavement si spitting damp lava
The city thirst without horses
Requires a thousand years
As a thousand drops in the ocean
The horse is licking my hands straight
I have my coral eyes open / coloured fish in the ocean /
You move first. I am waiting a century a race or a step Checkmate
I will step beside loneliness since now.