Poetry

The grey horse grazes outside
and eats, eats bit by bit
in our country
and on the farms is were it gets delicacies
 
but first it must go up into dark Africa
as pestilences and plagues
and famine asks a toll.
 
There are clouds hanging black
and thunder drawing closer
and it smells the rising wind.
 
Still it waits on the angel of death
to give a loud whistle
and then it stretches its stride
as everywhere there are corpses when war comes.