The Wooden Horse

A wooden horse two thousand years old rears its head in a glass showcase in a gallery of old silk paintings. With its crudely carved mane and wild scars, its smoky grain and ancient dust, it stamps down the small space, imprinting upon it a lost landscape of pale souls long since buried alive, of wind-blown lands, of gray swords, iron skies and wild waters. The wooden horse gallops the silence of strange buried texts and lost scripts in worldless steppes beneath the great white stars, where princesses sleep in blue square-spiral clouds, where worlds and earths whirl, shedding sawdust and ashes, where time dives the depths of northern black woods.

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