The Four Horses

The White Horse

Sister tell
me if you've seen the sun rising over the south bound river,
the rays of the day splintering, radiating through dew tipped leaves,
the mist wavering between the bushes lining our streets,
the shadow of our flag shading a proud town?

Then tell
me when you saw a man sitting firm
on a white mount walk the cliff above the valley:
did the sun shine on him?

He followed the Sun, I know that much.
He rose from the East, escorting
the new day's light over the horizon.

When his white steed stood outside the gates of our town,
did you cry? did you smile?
I can't recall what I myself did.
But something so white had to have been so pure.
The gates had swung wide for him, so
why shouldn't we have opened our hearts?

Last, tell
me if tomorrow brought the same grand sight;
the same breath of awe;
the same exhalation of peace.
Tell me
sister, why did my heart soar with the falcons
the day our flag flew no more?





The Red Horse

I wish I could say it was dramatic when the Red Horse carried his rider into town.
the drums palpitating to the beat of every man's heart.
the hooves striking fiercely against the cobblestoned street.
the crowd would have gasped as the horse reared and the
man brandished a gleaming scythe, slicing upwards
through the air in a dramatic call to arms against
the foes of some distant land.
A cry would have gone up, tears would have been
shed as the men were drawn out of our village
to a fortified encampment somewhere near but
so far, feet beating in step to the sound of
drums drums pulsing in their ears and in our chests.

The rider bore no sword, scrawny little man that he was.
Passed right through our now always open gates, by the white
flag of the White Horse and his rider.
Pacified. We were pacified. Little town that we were. It's
odd how easily will crumbles when tried. No baby will
cry when forced to its mother's breast.

I suppose some of us knew the horses were, well, wrong.
Questions should have been flowing forth from fierce
lips, begging the obvious, igniting the fuel
that now lies unspent.
Our town suckles the breast of the rider, wasting away.

When the red rider said "Come," the men
followed.



The Black Horse

We all knew the Black Horse was coming.
The preacher claimed he knew it first.
Deep in the depths of some old book, he told us,
there was a prophecy foretelling of the riders, two of
which had already visited us. He said a
Black one would follow.
Three horses weren't so bad, I had thought.

I wish I would have known how wrong I was.

First to change was the sky. Mornings hung over till
dusk with a sickly glow that mimicked the boils
on a toads back. The Sun bled red through
a thick sky that choked the air between buildings.
Even the stars twinkled less.

Since the Black Horse and his rider were the most
anticipated, it made sense that
their arrival was the most attended, despite what it
forebode.

The book had been wrong about a couple of things.
The rider wasn't sickly, he certainly didn't look like he was
starving. His belly was swollen with the fat of
second helpings that most of us could have never afforded.
Even his horse hung low to the
ground, stumbling along on disproportioned legs.

And unlike the writings of the book, there was no famine.
At first. The harvest was the best our lands had seen in years.
But we reaped none of the benefits. My heart throbbed as I saw
the products of our labor carted off to the war.

As for the rest of the food, well, I might have called it a tax. Before the
Horses, I probably would have called it theft. Either way,
the food was claimed. Each day they feasted. They gorged till
they threw up and then they feasted more on our wheat and rye,
our cattle and pigs.

It never crossed our minds not to agree.

In a way, the book was right though. The land was ravaged. As
the Black Horse lingered, so did a smog. Ash fell like rain and painted
the lands in dust, strangling our plants and settling
like a worn blanket over our water. The hills turned a sickly pale
shade, the shade of resignation.




The Pale Horse

Our village was fading. Village. Not sure if
it could even be called that anymore.

No men. No children, no elders.
No food, no leaders.
No flag.

It might have been frightening to me, seeing the Pale Horse
stride slowly through the gates. His hoofs stirred the thick layer
of dust that clung to everything, casting soot into the already murky air.

The man dismounted. His robes were fine, untouched
by age or wear. His face was alive, so warm and
inviting, the face you find on an old friend
returning from a long journey.

I wasn't the first person to greet him. And I wasn't the last.

When he walked to my door and smiled at me,
I smiled back.

He opened his arms for me and I fell into them.
We embraced.

Finally, I thought, I will
know Peace.