He clapped his hands
and thunder rolled through the land
to break the peace.
And his hands beheld a horn,
taken from a dream
a dream of a wild horse.
With a control over itself,
and to regulate the fantasy of the dead.
To the sky he threw the hornof gold,
and as the heavens part to accept its prize.
And a triangel of power extends the globe,
and fantasy becomes reality....
Forward,
from the stars comes a cloud of dust,
as its whitish form travels the rainbow.
And Feet covered by dangling ice,
and a mane taken from a silk tree.
With eyes that show its power,
and a blue star upon its head
to allow all to imagine...
And horn of uniqueness for him.
Told never to be caught,
or seen
except by weery eyes.
While he lays rested,
for the fantasy to begin.
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