The hands on the reins
And the green of the forest
The horn at a distance
The hand over the forehead
The searching look foresights
The pain inside the red heart
Ladies, their rings, their coursers
And the pain inside the red heart
A horsewhip sharply snaps
A fan points the way
There she goes...
The hands are legs
And the green of the forest
Oh, morning, surrounded by mornings
The horn’s getting closer
The look softly closes
A memory gently touchs the red heart
A long hair upon the hay
Drowns the red heart
The horses suddenly stop
And the fire, the fire, the fire...