The old horse neigh echoing the oldness of the alley where it was sheltered–
A destitute building with ferns and mosses, grown freshly last monsoon, and now multicolored;
An owner who has no one to look after him; a room he lives broken with seasonal winds and–
Breeze waltzing through the broken window pane–located overlooking his chest.
There was a door to the room of prestigious mahogany wood, but, thief had stolen it long ago.
The old horse neigh resonating the broken cough of the owner of the shelter, again.
The old man, whose beard had grown monsoon-moss colored green,–
And the eyes have got buried in the hole with the mouth being dead brown–
Lying on the bed like a skin of a snake–skeletal and all, is not the owner of the horse.
The horse, old and worn, tired and proud, neigh again to the brontide or–
Was it another building crumbling down in the storm, first one of spring welcoming summer.
His forehead over the bridge of nose till the throat latch were visible, though, with effort.
The strangler figs had strangled him long ago before the owner of the house passed away–
Few weeks ago, when there was a rain and he, the horse, neigh at top of his voice.
There were no one to feed the owner of the house, there were no one to feed the horse.
But, still it survives as the spirit of the night rode him through the alley of the oldest part–
Of the city, and let him feed on the soul they met on their rides.
The dead man was not his owner–the horse neigh again as lighting strikes and–
Drizzle started–he was his rider only who know how to use him to gather money–
For his gamble games and whores and drinks.
The horse neigh resonating the oldness of the shelter; the spirit will not come he lest know of it.
His call, repeated ones, mocking the old owner’s cough. The green of the fig dripping down–
Over his faint mane making him green–a fresh coat over the pale brown one.
A building broken down somewhere in the alley; somewhere a window was thud loud.
The horse neigh as the fig strangle him to hush him; the rain splash on the moss grown chest–
Of the dead man.
P.S. This is an Ekphrasis inspired by the painting shared at Ronovanwrites for Guess That Art III