The White Horses

By Manuel González Prada*

Why is the Earth all atremble?

Why are deafened the clouds by stupendous clamor?

Are second Titans uprooting the mountains?

New Huns in abortion by the snows precipitated,

Or speeds a vast heard of buffaloes wildly?

Not barbarians nor Titans nor buffaloes:

It is the white horses in all their beauty.

To the winds their manes extended,

Aflame their eyes, their flanks like bellows beating,

They pass and pass, galloping rhythmically:

An avalanche of snow, by the steppe surrounded,

They cleave the monotonous azure of the heavens

With an undulating streak of shining whiteness.

They passed on. Far away, very far, in the peace of

the horizon,

Vanishes the vague thunder, the light dust settles.

Remains upon the prairie, remains to serve as vestige,

Only a broad, red ribbon.

Woe to the poor white horses!

All are fleeing, wounded,

Wounded unto death.

*Translated by anonymous editor, Inter-America 3 (Oct 1919-Aug 1920), pp. 171-172.

Prepared for the Internet by Sonia Fernandez.

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El porvenir nos debe una victoria, prosa y poesía de Manuel González Prada