A young foal bounds about
in the green pastures of youth.
Playfully racing the April sun,
it trys to beat the rays to the end of the green
as though dreaming of one day
becoming the speediest stallion.
Yet it strikes me
-ironically, as it will strike this poor beast-
that it is not a sense of achievement
which inspires its young legs to bound
but the cruel whip of life
which forces progress.
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