*I based this off of a Hungarian Ballad, in honor of my Horse Lord:
Your face as Red as a burning ember,
In the fires that smolder from January to late December.
The horse, the horseman, the coachman entice!
Whip that horse so that it may jump thrice!
I beg of you, just one glass of water to quench the thirst!
One glass, before I burst!
‘Nay,’ the Coachman says, ‘I give you something divine –
Three glasses, of pure red wine.’
Onto the coach, and away in the night!
Silent roar, silence… No sound, no sight.
Away, gone, I be in the night’s sullen flood,
The wine becomes my pulse, my blood.
The world is blurred and the senses slur,
Things were not as they were.
I greet the newly coming, as they arrive as they do-
I bid farewell, to the leaving Ancestors too.
‘But do not get off the mount,’ I am told –
‘For you too will join the dead in their cold!‘
Faster goes the coach, the horses stampeding the air-
I was lost, yet I couldn’t care.
Crossing a crossroads I was knocked from my horse-
I fell, they thundered on their course…
Fear gripped me… What if I won’t return?
Would any of my kin light a candle to burn?
The wine takes me, into a shady sleep…
I fought it, but it’s hold held deep…
I slept beneath a tree, that grew nearby in the night,
With it’s apples, of purest white.
The wind chilled, and I shivered as I slipped,
Oh, too much wine I had sipped!
Awake at the next day’s rise,
I find to my surprise…
That my fingers are full of rocks, dirt, and soot –
Yet… I hadn’t moved… A single foot.