Hooves drummed,
Seeming to say,
Clip,
Clop,
Crop,
Crap.
Drink with wind,
Shod in ice,
the street slipped.
The horse
Collapsed
On its cropper,
Crowds of gapers
Gathered, crowds
Of trousers coming to a crotch
on Kuznetsky Street.
Gathered in a seam,
Laughter tittered and spluttered.
"A horse down,
A horse has slipped,"
Snickered the whole Kuznetsky.
I alone
Failed to add my voice to its howl.
I went up
And saw
The horse'sgreat eyes...
The street upturned
And floating,
The way he saw it...
I went up and saw
Tear after large tear
Dripping down his muzzle
And onto his coat...
And a moaning
And animal-like grief
Burst out in a flood,
And, rustling, spread.
"Horse, don't you cry.
Horse, listen.
What do you think! Are you worse than them?
My child, we are all
To some extent horses.
All of us have in us
Some of the horse."
The horse my have been old
And needed no nursing,
What said might have seemed trite
But nevertheless
It lurched
To its feet,
Whinned and
Moved off again.
It went back to its stable,
Stood content in its stall.
Ans it thought it was
A young colt again,
That it is worthwile living
And it wasn't bad working.
Vladimir Mayakovsky
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