among the high hills,
among the white-crested waves,
does it move?
or is it unmoving,
this graceful vision of it?
it seems unmoving, yet
faster than the mind moves;
ahead of all your senses;
even roaming wild and joyful
among the high hills,
its white mane flying free,
somehow it’s still
within its movement,
within your stillness;
can you see the tracks of fish,
or the airy passage of the birds?
it’s beyond movement, even beyond stillness;
and yet, you love it,
yearn for it, although it – because it
runs faster than the mind of man.
Is that its love?