Slaves of Yore
Slaves of Yore
The eyes of the sun graced the hills of Louisville, Kentucky with its tender green foliage that glistened against the blue sky. The jockey proudly sat in the saddle, gloating over all the praise, as if he was the only one who won the Derby.
The one who carried him to victory was a forgotten slave who served the son of Adam and all mankind henceforth. Horses, unknowingly, went into battle on the line of spears, arrows, bullets, and heavy artillery, with death forever looming at them.
They drew covered wagons over mountains, through the snow, and across arid deserts in the searing heat. They brought families to the paradise of their dreams. They united the east with the west, while disregarded for their accomplishments. Their masters drew all the praise for their bravery. If they could speak, this is what their humble speech would sound like.
“I keep moving forward from the crack of a whip. I wear the yoke of oblivion fashioned by the creator of life. Though my life may seem to be of very little worth, my servitude makes it valuable to he who cracks the whip. Poets romanticize about me with their gallant stories, and painters are enamored with the sleek lines of my body, but all in all I am still a slave.”
With the emergence of the automobile, man has become less dependent on horses, and what is left is his admiration for them and his reluctancy to cast them strictly into slavery. He still races them for his livelihood, but isn’t speed a part of their natural inheritance, so competition becomes less of an exploitation?
I love horses, those subservient giants who have the strength to kill and yet the capacity to be tamed.
