six white horses
with banners displaying
cartwheels turning
shadowless trees swaying
a trickle of tears
escalated into a flood
the market on the avenue
was buried in the mud
as the dawns new light
started pouring in
singing a lament
this was a holy place again
a fire was blazing
near the broken jug of wine
squeeze some more juice
from the fruit of the vine
dreams were colored
in a milieu of rust
and six pure white horses
pulled that cart of hope and trust
on the foreshore of the river
stand the golden gates of dawn
the pipers tune was playing
as the flood of tears moved on