The horseshoes on the black top carry with them the sound of oppression and revolution.
The clip-clop echoes and gets the blood running.
The streets are empty, but I can feel a few eyes peering from behind curtained windows.
At one time she rode for the people, putting herself on display to the world in order to relieve their suffering. Christ-like, nude, but head held up high.
Now her shoulders are slumped. Her once beautiful hair looks dry and brittle. She looks down at the horse in front of her, but at nothing else.
The weight of the world is pressing down. There is a spark in her eyes, on her lips, but nothing more.
The horse is tired, its ribs protruding. It scrapes its feet along the ground.
Someone is yelling, the ether tube is leaking, the patient is not sleeping well.
She does not look towards the sounds, doesn’t even flinch at the outburst.
She rides, I think I see a tear, but I can’t be sure.
She stops the horse, pulls her hair from her face, and looks at me.
Her eyes are defiant, her smile unsettling.
She moves her hand. It might be a wave. But it wasn’t a greeting.
It was a movement that spoke. I feel it, but I don’t understand it.
She kicks her heels and the horse starts walking away.