Pegasus

PEGASUS

Pegasus was born of the blood of Gorgon Medusa. The artists, musicians and poets rode the winged horse, who brought them by the lake where the Muses of Apollo sang, danced and played. Continue in Actaeon at the end of this poem.

The winged horse being transfigured into the hunter’s steed

Amidst laugh I hear the rustling sounds of the leaves,

The galloping strides of a horse through the reeds.

Like in swiftest hunter's curvetting leap,

Where tormented air pithfully sweep,

A peaceless mind vaults in passion enjoying the evil rider's strongest whips,

In search of love and beauty I hear the mortal heart's cry and weep.

As the sun rises towards the meridian as a golden chariot's burning wheel,

Like the sun-king diademed with rays,

Flying in gold winged waves,

As the sky crosses the shadows of the darkened will,

In the sun parched rills where the shinning pebbles glitter and trill,

I hear the movement of the shadows as the venomous serpents lurking to kill.

In the gleaming silvery webs where the darkness waves,

In the bloodstained gaze where the wind streams helplessly sway,

Where the light and shadow bind and unbind the mind in the oscillating seize of the murky feelings freeing the mind and binding the body in the passionate rays,

In this sun borne day,

I hear in the forest the hoof beats of a horse moving in a galloping grace.

In the passing shadows of the changing temporal net,

In the countless creatures' shadowy raids,

The wind dispersing from the web,

The mind dissolving in the lake,

The lace of the light trembling and falling off from the flesh ,

In the awakening mind the blue sky drifting in dreams' sleepless sails,

The universe bearing the earth in its weightless space,

I hear the sounds of the galloping horse moving in a restless pace.

In this inner haze ,

In the wind born wings,

Where the feathers of light as Pegasus starward swing,

The dreams harp on the strings,

The Muses sing,

In the airy will the fiery night still in the torments twirl,

On the shadowy shades the galloping passion still ruthlessly raids,

The shadows chase the flimsy mind's frolicking golden deer like ferocious hounds,

On nature's eternal tale ,

In stag-trails,

Raising the colours of the dust from the ground,

Where the nimble-footed deer flights in fright alerting the deep depth of the forest with dust and susurrant sounds,

The beauty stands frightened and her brisk breast pounds.

Who is this hunter galloping around?

Actaeon

ACTAEON