prances the hills in the morning light.
 His bridle is painted with thunder and gold,
 orchids and dragons, pale knights of old.
 He is the horse of the ages past.
 And now the children run to see
 the stallion on the hill,
 bringing bags of apples
 and of clover they have filled.
 And the white horse tells his stories
 of the days now past and gone
 and the children stand a-wondering
 believing every song.
 How brightly glows the past.

 When the sun is high comes a mare so red,
 trampling the graves of the living and dead.
 Her mantle is heavy with mirrors and glass,
 all is reflected when the red mare does pass.
 She is the horse of the here and now.
 And now there is confusion
 amongst the children on the hill.
 They cling to one another
 and no longer can be still.
 While the red mare's voice is trembling
 with a rare and mighty call,
 the children start remembering
 the bearers and the pall.
 And though their many-colored sweaters
 are reflected in the glass,
 and though the sun shines down upon them,
 they are frightened in the grass.
 How stark is the here and now.


 When night does fall comes a stallion black,
 so proud and tall he never looks back.
 He wears him no emeralds, silver and gold,
 not even a covering to keep him from cold.
 He is the horse of the years to come.
 And I will get me down
 before this steed upon my knees
 and sing to him the sorrows
 of a thousand centuries.
 And the children now will scatter
 as their mothers call them home,
 for the sadness of the evening horse
 no child has ever known.
 And I will hang about him
 a bell that's never rung
 and thank him for the many words
 which from his throat have never sprung.
 And I'll thank God and all the angels
 that the stallion of the evening,
 the black horse of the future,
 comes to earth but has no tongue