he was the last of his kind,
one slow and long drawn
thought, a soft murmur
in the deep forest of night
he bathed in the light
of the moon and the stars,
the birds came to sing,
the elves came to dance
in the mirror of the lake
he saw himself naked and white,
he dipped his horn
in the coolness of water
then filled with longing
for another of his kind
he walked between trees
to the edge of darkness
at first he lay down and cried
lost in the sun and the day,
nowhere and everywhere
to go in this new world
when he moved, the hunters
came, at the order
of nobles and kings
who wanted his life and his horn
fields and wood were
filled with arrows and traps,
virgins and dummies to bait him,
mazes to swallow his mind.
he remembered his wings
invisible secrets given to him
followed cranes and geese
and on the top of a mountain
he found her, the unicorn
he remembered without
knowing, as if she had been
there as forever, playing
with grass and with stones,
chasing clouds and
turning in the wind,
filled with curiosity
Their horns fell off
when they kissed,
then they walked
down into the valley.
Unrecognized, silent,
polite to strangers,
their wings hidden,
magic in lost songs.
their horns to be found
by nobody but a madman,
their story unforeseeable
and filled with the promiss
of life and death.
unicorns cannot die,
now they were allowed
into the grace of confusion,
not born to bear a horn,
but to wear the sign
of fragility and innocence
and to meet chaos with love.
(Franklin Dove, 1933, ..how to create a 'unicorn', well , there
is never enough popcorn to go for..)
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