Year of the Capricious Horse

[Intro — bare seven-string acoustic, one dry floor-tom hoofbeat; low male baritone half-spoken, a tired smile in the voice] Sixty years—the wheel comes round, same red horse, same rattling bones. Vladimir, laugh through smoke and stone: I heard your warning. I learned nothing at all. [Verse 1 — restrained and close-mic; flexible phrasing, guitar pushing against the vocal] I am the horse with backward eyes, all blame behind, all fire ahead. I know exactly where the road runs, then live as though it bends instead. I call delay discernment, call fear a measured pace. I curse the hands that made me run, then run from what I face. [Pre-Chorus — bowed bass enters like chain dragged over wood; tension rises without speeding] The shackles fell years ago; I still shorten every stride. No guard remains, no iron rings— I carry them inside. [Chorus — controlled 6/8 gallop; low accordion and piston percussion enter; vocal opens but never becomes polished] Chain me to an engine, one furnace to another. Let iron answer iron; let the pistons be my brother. Do not save me into pasture. Do not praise the grass as grace. I would rather break in harness than forget I had a race. I am the capricious horse— eyes behind me, fire ahead, charging toward the thing I know, denying it with every step. [Verse 2 — pull back to guitar and bowed bass; no sentimentality] A decent hand unhooked my chain and led me into day. He saved the life he thought was mine and took my world away. The mine had blinded both my eyes and taught the dark by heart. The sky had neither roof nor wall. Its mercy tore me apart. [Build — metallic taps like distant closure charges; voice grows angry, not louder] I smelled the timber, dust, and oil, heard blasting charges set. I ran back toward the blasting dark. At least it knew my name. [Chorus — heavier engine pulse; rough group hum beneath final lines] Chain me to an engine, one furnace to another. Let iron answer iron; let the pistons be my brother. Do not save me into pasture. Do not praise the grass as grace. I would rather choose the honest blast than live erased in open space. [Verse 3 — bitterly conversational; allow one short, dry laugh] They call the pasture kindness: warm sun, a harmless view— a quiet fence around the fact the world is done with you. Unwanted wears a gentle hand. Unable gets a chair. They keep the body after work and praise the country air. No horse is ever chainless: next meal, next task, next breath; the little hooks of appetite that lead us toward our death. I do not ask for freedom. I ask what deserves my force. What have I made that stays behind when fire has left the horse? [Turn — instruments nearly stop; intimate and self-accusing] I say I work for those to come. I want them to know I came. Vladimir, laugh—the noblest chain still wears the owner’s name. [Bridge — harmony subtly loses its center; fragments of earlier guitar return in the wrong order] I do not fear the world without me; that ending’s old and plain. I fear the world still all around that will not join again. Faces fall away from names. The mine becomes a sound. The horse remains while sky and road come quietly unbound. [Final Chorus — fullest but not triumphant; gallop and engine lock together, then begin separating] Chain me to an engine, one furnace to another. Let iron answer iron; let the pistons be my brother. Do not save me into silence. Do not graze my fire away. I would rather know the final blast than lose the name of day. I am the capricious horse— eyes behind me, fire ahead. Laugh, old singer: I know the road, and run it just the same. [Outro — instruments thin to guitar, breath, and one slowing hoofbeat; final words nearly spoken] The shackles gone. The gate thrown wide. No rider. No alibi. I know the road. I run.