Morning. Tara, Serbia. champions practicing early morning on the top of the mountain – magical connection
There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse
*THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE. by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WHAT time our Lord still walk’d the earth,
Unknown, despised, of humble birth,
And on Him many a youth attended
(His words they seldom comprehended),
It ever seem’d to Him most meet
To hold His court in open street,
As under heaven’s broad canopy
One speaks with greater liberty.
The teachings of His blessed word
From out His holy mouth were heard;
Each market to a fane turn’d He
With parable and simile.
One day, as tow’rd a town He roved,
In peace of mind with those He loved,
Upon the path a something gleam’d;
A broken horseshoe ‘twas, it seem’d.
So to St. Peter thus He spake:
“That piece of iron prythee take!”
St. Peter’s thoughts had gone astray,—
He had been musing on his way
Respecting the world’s government,
A dream that always gives content,
For in the head ‘tis check’d by nought;
This ever was his dearest thought,
For him this prize was far too mean
Had it a crown and sceptre been!
But, surely, ’twasn’t worth the trouble
For half a horseshoe to bend double!
And so he turn’d away his head,
As if he heard not what was said,
The Lord, forbearing tow’rd all men,
Himself pick’d up the horseshoe then
(He ne’er again like this stoop’d down).
And when at length they reach’d the town,
Before a smithy He remain’d,
And there a penny for ‘t obtain’d.
As they the market-place went by,
Some beauteous cherries caught His eye:
Accordingly He bought as many
As could be purchased for a penny,
And then, as oft His wont had been,
Placed them within His sleeve unseen.
They went out by another gate,
O’er plains and fields proceeding straight,
No house or tree was near the spot,
The sun was bright, the day was hot;
In short, the weather being such,
A draught of water was worth much.
The Lord walk’d on before them all,
And let, unseen, a cherry fall.
St. Peter rush’d to seize it hold,
As though an apple ‘twere of gold;
His palate much approv’d the berry;
The Lord ere long another cherry
Once more let fall upon the plain;
St. Peter forthwith stoop’d again.
The Lord kept making him thus bend
To pick up cherries without end.
For a long time the thing went on;
The Lord then said, in cheerful tone:
“Had’st thou but moved when thou wert bid,
Thou of this trouble had’st been rid;
The man who small things scorns, will next,
By things still smaller be perplex’d.”*