Up , up, goes the horse,
In a galloping course,
Over a steep Coarse,
Racing in full force.
It trots with a rhythmic sound,
Gathering a disciplined bound,
Swirling across a trashy mound,
While reaching a high round.
Up above the hill high,
The horse raises a sigh,
As it utters a sharp neigh,
While munching the ripe rye.
It relaxes down on the meadow,
Slipping into a mere shadow,
Suddenly there arises a tornado,
Creating a sensational back flow.
Meenas Poems 