Under the quiet glow of the rising moon,
the white horses gather—
breath soft, hooves whispering
against the earth’s steady heartbeat.
They stand like guardians of the night,
their manes catching silver light,
their eyes holding stories
older than words.
Women come to them softly,
drawn by something ancient—
a pull in the chest,
a remembering.
The horses bow their heads,
as if recognising
every untold ache,
every unspoken strength.