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I believe the horse has something to say.

(Referencing this article from the New Yorker, via Mike:)

"Ah, yes," demanded the Philosopher.
The arm stretched out.  The finger pointed.
The cheeks tugged.  The lips tightened.
The brow dipped.  The smirk bowed for applause.

Before the learned one, the saint:
His knees bruised, his eyes damp, 
His garment stained, his head hung;
Doubt had taken unaware the holy one--

He clutched, forgotten, a handful of images:

snow fell softly among the trees;
in the quiet, the lamp-post guttered--

dark and thick burned incense, inky;
in the chance glimmer, a silver throne--

amid the heathery mountains and the thymy downs, 
between rivers, a horse turned his head and spoke:

  Silenus!  Why do you laugh at this man's grief?
  Begone, daemon! Go drink your fill of emptiness!

  Think you, of all, to find ration in joy or grief?
  This man knows both, and knows your wisdom false.

  This fool finds surety in suffering; could you?
  Or only suffering sure?  Can you embrace the gulf, as he?

  And why do you drink?  The gulf will bide, not blink.
  But he knows the light of dawn comes with morning.

  This man will walk, not alone, the hills of that day.
  He will bathe in this river.  Will you read of it?

  Will you drink from that spring as well, or pretend?
  Answer, Silenus!  Or laugh, but laugh honestly!

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