"That night he dreamt of horses in a field on a high plain
where the spring rains had brought up the grass and the
wildflowers out of the groud and the flowers ran all blue and
yellow far as the eye could see and in the dream he was among
the horses and the coursed the young mares and fillies over the
plain where their rich bay and their rich chestnut colors shone
in the sun and the young colts ran with their dams and trampled
down the flowers in a haze of pollen that hung in the sun like
powdered gold and they ran he and the horses out along the
high mesas where the ground resounded under their running
hooves and they flowed and changed and ran and their manes
and tails blew off of them like spume and there was nothing
else at all in that high world and they moved all of them in
a resonance that was like a music among them and they were
none of them afraid horse nor colt nor mare and they ran in
that resonance which is the world itself and which cannot be
spoken but only praised."
Cormac McCarthy
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário