Stallion Reign Poem by Mekonnen Kelly

Stallion Reign by Mekonnen Kelly


Who is this who dare challenge the Stallion of old?
Who mocks her jug-like visage?
For how many days have your lungs respired upon the Earth?
Can your days in battle surpass her own?
Is not the Force that fastens the limits of your strengths and endurance
the same as which endows her with boundless qualities,
without walls to contain them?
One who approaches the Earth's edges and refuses to forward
Is forever restrained,
but one who is compelled to gallop beyond
into groundless uncertainty
shall never be contained,
for they are themselves the container.
And the Mind that sees limits
will see his achievements to be like unravelled knots,
bound by the servitude of fear;
au contraire, the Stallion is blind to such bars of restriction;
deafened to commands that halt her strides
and knows no limits;
her intentions, she capitalises,
crushing these mountainous limitations to gravel
as the feeble grovel at her feet.

Do not the strokes of wind compliment her strides
since they yearn to know her graceful manner?
Does not water, that sacred thing -
Man's take for rotten fruit -
flow from every orifice and down every valley,
seeking pleasures in quenching the Stallion's thirst?
Morning Stars in all their vicinities
are compelled to bend the knee in her presence,
and the Sun's arrowing rays fall short in penetrating her blackness -
radiance of Cosmic essence that persuades all things
to prostrate in her glory
just as the Moon's fluorescent shine
is absorbed by her nightly skin.

Who possess the right in casting judgement upon the
Stallion of old?
Who be more ancient than she?
Whom more wise than she?
Who consumes herself into the bosom of night?
Her neck be clothed in the tightest skins harder than all things precious
that formulate inside the Earth's womb;
flesh, impenetrable like steel.

Does not the mule gaze with glistening reverence?
He hopes to attain that which he will never be
lest he loosen Mind from the shackles of uncertainties.
The larger camel looks down upon his cousin yet
scorns her beauty,
for in the sight of whom do wild beast weep in elation?

The trumpets sing in the name of war and the mighty
assume their positions.
Steadfast, she eyes the surging multitude and refuses to
allow these villains to gains their centre and
breaks them to pieces.
Her pompous snorting wafts to the drumming of
heavenly vibrations,
And the mortal shall vanish to volcanic ash
in the way of such scorching splendour.
Hooves carve canyons into the ground
and rattle the swords of battle in all their
mightiest steel.
In this, the enemy seeks refuge from her ferociousness
lest they desire in being crushed to dust
and dashed to the will of the wind,
for her blood is aroused by the stench of battle,
That too stiffens in awe of her coming.

Amidst the coolness of rage does she break men down to silence,
scurrying from no man,
snickering in the face of fear
as the threats of iron swords shatter across her spine,
a testimony to the Divine Power that sowed this beast together.
Confidence in self thus carries her to victory.