The wild horses of death

When the shepherds of midnight drive their flocks of clouds along the roads of moonlight towards us, without horseshoes come galloping the wild horses of death. The killers, the silent stallions, ridden by bodiless horsemen, their mute and sorrowful ghosts. When they appear along the white roads, even the moon hides in fear. Where do they come from? Who can know? When all the world sleeps, sunk in twilight, they slacken the stirrups and come to a halt, and always at least one stallion among them is waiting for a new rider. And then before him they will stop, breathless and pale he will leap astride, and down the moonlit road for new horsemen again in silence they will fly, the wild horses of death.