Cold-blooded murder of the English tongue...

Oh this is the animal that never was.
They knew it not but loved it anyways
- from its neck, its prancing, its pose,
to the light of its tranquil gaze.

Of course, it wasn’t real. But it grew pure
because they loved it. Always, they left space.
And in the space, uncluttered and so clear,
it hardly needed to exist, yet raised

its head. They never fed it any corn,
just always hope: to be was possible.
And this gave such strength to the animal

that it bore on its brow a horn. One horn.
All white, it came up to a virgin girl -
and was in the silver mirror and in her.

Notes