Poetry

VISION

It was on a morning in early spring,
when he came, riding an old black horse,
an enchanting song to sing.

His dark hair over his shoulders was spread,
his sparkling brown eyes, burning into mine,
made everything spin in my head.

For a moment he took my breath away,
the exaltation lasted so very briefly,
then it was over and he continued on his way.

Coming every spring, with eyes closed, very tight,
again I see that fierce horseman appearing,
from nowhere, shining in the morning light.

His staring glance; intense vividness it casts,
I want to feel like this much longer,
too short this moment lasts.

Who was he; who passed by in such a steady pace,
so merrily singing, looking so alive and so free?
a vision it has to stay; in present time it has no place.