• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
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I gallop on doing my duty, not the king’s horse,
A poor wretched brown one, dark as the night
When the moon shimmers behind the clouds
I lay my head low, resting, sorrowful, the beatings
The lack of food, the poverty of my keeper
He works me to the bone, to scratch a living.
Then I espy with my big eye on that day
The prince’s white horse is the chosen one
The ashvameda yaga needs a pure bred
White as the driven snow, sacrificed in the fire
I try to look away, but my eye is drawn to the fire.