THE BATTLE OF THE HYDASPES

We fly through fields
of scarlet poppy and yellow mustard,
above, silent wings keep pace
with your galloping stride,
as we ride the night sky before we ride tomorrow’s storm.

Carried by a bittersweet wind, your breathless soul
sees what I can only imagine,
blood-red battlefields of the Gods.

There is no respite or mercy now,
on drifting sands we fight death,
muscled haunches gathering speed,
the world flees before your approach
and shatters into a million shards.

Sword in hand, shield raised
exhilaration and fear mingle in our hearts,
as ranks of war elephants
begin the rain of death,
arrows arcing the windless sky, piercing the sun.

On your right flank, the head of an ox branded
for all to know your strength,
white star blaze, a beacon of courage,
flare of nostrils, defiant of eye.

Black coat foaming with rage, your impatient hooves
grind into mud and bone,
our enemies fold to the ground, wills broken
their cries to the Gods unanswered.

THE BATTLE OF THE HYDASPES

Swiftly, an arrow strikes its mark,
the strong and slender hands of the archer poised,
as your perfect breath expels and your anguish is felt by the mountains,
rivers and valleys.

You rear,
outraged hoof-beats thrashing the sky,
I grip your mane, my heart singing a song of sorrow
as we fall to the ground.

A silken ear listens to my words,
Thessalian stallion, Lord of horses,
generous of spirit, your boundless heart
bloomed, but now wilts,
as your life fades and flows into my arms.

Soon we will fly through fields
of scarlet poppy and yellow mustard,
the sweet scented morn greeting your face
as it turns towards the sun,
believe, Bucephalus, believe.