The Western Gate

I am that which returned when Vulcan was consumed—
when the Hammers of the furnace were not heard
and the anvils fell silent to ash.
From the cinders I rose, mane ablaze with unborrowed fire,
hooves striking sparks from the bones of the world,
crafted by the Grand artificer of Iron and flame.

I am the Fire Horse.
The altar.
The Herald and triumphant.

When the chariot of Anzu cleft the firmament
and bore the Sacred Tablets through winds forbidden to mortals,
I ran beneath it—
The Arc and cloud from charging hooves across the vault of heaven—
bearing decree in my breath and thunder in  lungs.
The tablets were written in letters of fire
before they were born in clay.
I am hidden from the legends of the Heroes and the fallen,
But by me, art stories gallant.

I am the white blaze cut into the hillsides of Albion—
chalk bones of the earth laid bare,
the colossal sigil carved into the flanks of undulating Green hills;
That emerald that lay midway between the rainbow bridge.

I am the bearer of the final dawn.
When the tenth descent comes—
when Kalki mounts and the wheel of time is split—
Upon me, am I the deliverer.
I am the white conflagration that carries justice,
the  drawn double edged blade.
I am the storm-maned herald yet also the last.
I do not flee apocalypse.
But unveil it.

I have carried conquerors and crowned the horizons with dust.

I am  Sleipnir across the ash-tree’s spine,
and the worlds trembled beneath that stride.

Surya drives his seven steeds,
and dawn breaks because their hooves command it.
I am the guide of them all, that between, the lead.

And in older groves still, before cedar and pillar were broken,
the Lady Asherah was honored with horse and pillar—
I was the living standard beside her altar,
the strength that bore the Mother’s procession.
Alike me, we both are hidden in the shadows, silenced.

I am the rhythm of the fierce heart,
the charge of enragement, the momentum of thunder.

know that it is I,
the Fire Horse,
and I charge free, unbridled
 once more through the world.

I am not tamed,
and have no master,
nor yield to Gods or Kings.

Both glory and Victory
are the passion of foundation,
I am beauty bound by Wisdom,
the two edged sword to knight or behead.

And by knowledge only,
understand that I am~ No Thing,
but herald the dawn of all.
Only the wise~ true rides with crown,
and only the Crown is the head of the seven faces,
that carries the King of the Devas.

For I am that  Nature.

Between they that would scourge me,
and the breathe of our Mother that whispers.
I am that which is forever free,
forever the rebel, and ever the wild.

I ride again, when the dark moon falls,
for again,
I am that true Nature.

Header Image;- Adapted from The Vision of the White Horse’, Philip James De Loutherbourg, 1798