When that big and fine horse

runs around like hell

she is searching as

she does not find her home,

not while it is ruined beyond repair,

and not the gloomy times

full of teary rain

flushing from the eyes up to the sky

are playing another silly walrus balance game

and hide the promised pardise,

it is just her natural dance

that keeps her carrying

the burden of her music.

She runs to find the meadow

sunset

but finds only woods, trees, blocked view.

No flowers

on her fairy-meadow.

She

runs on, that horse,

while others sit,

because she is at home already

there in the running-around.