Birth of Horses

 

Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns blow.

Can you hear their calling? Can you hear them?

Echoes sounding, echoes fading, old songs stirring.

Darkness covered dale and mountain; dawn was waiting.

Stars were sprinkled, sown in blackness,

Blackness deep beneath the night. Bema hunted.

Great the hunter, gift-giver, gold was his hair,

Strong his sword, swift in battle.

Foes they feared him, fierce and mighty.

 

Hearken! Hear his horn is sounded.

Bold the blowing, birthed are echoes

Rippling, running down rill and fold;

Shadows shatter, shimmer, form.

 

Dreams awaken, dancing, drawn are visions

Roused from darkness, roused by horn-call, running swiftly.

Bema then beheld them, bold wind-runners.

Four legs he fashioned from the earth,

Muscles he molded from the mud,

Held high aloft the head so proud,

Fair springs flowing filled their veins—

River water. Rippling streams run so swift.

From flint and iron forged four hooves he made;

The growing grass that in green waves blows,

He set to swing as silken mane and tail.

 

Many made he, mares and stallions,

Clothed and coated in colors fair.

Dappled daylight, dun from ripe barley,

Blood and earth blended, bay he made,

From the fallow dirt, farmers' joy: brown,

Black was born from boldest nightshade,

Snow from high slopes, softest white,

From great clouds gathered storm-grey cloaks.

Starlight and sunlight and scattered moon-beams

He laid on coat and limb to light and glisten.

 

Wild and wandering, the wind arose,

Blew its breath through bone and sinew,

Stirred and strengthened straight limbs clean.

Then Bema he blew a bold horn-note,

Awakened echoes in each proud steed—

Spirits fair and strong, horn-song in their hearts,

Clarion-clear, horn-calls in each voice.

 

Hwaet! Listen. Hwaet! Hearken. Horns and hoofbeats.

Can you hear their coming? Can you hear them?

Echoes sounding, echoes rising, old songs stirring.