[Esp./Eng.] Cuando el Corazón es un Potro Salvaje. || When the Heart is a Wild Colt.
If you are English, you can go directly to the English version 👉 HERE
Cuando el Corazón es un Potro Salvaje
Lo que observo más allá de la imagen
Ver es simplemente percibir con los ojos; mirar es enfocar la vista en algo. Pero observar, como bien dices, es desmenuzar la escena con todos los sentidos, es permitir que la imagen nos cuente su historia en silencio. Y lo que observo aquí es un instante congelado de pura energía vital.
Tomada de la iniciativa, cortesía de Pixabay
En un ruedo de tierra suelta, un lienzo ocre que delata juegos y carreras, dos magníficos caballos blancos son los dueños absolutos de la escena. No son de un blanco impoluto, de cuento de hadas, sino de un blanco real, manchado por el polvo y el sudor, las marcas de una vida vivida sin ataduras. El caballo de la izquierda se alza majestuoso sobre sus patas traseras, un monumento efímero a la fuerza. Su cuerpo es una curva tensa de músculos poderosos, su crin, larga y de un rubio platino, se sacude como una llamarada con el movimiento. Su cabeza está ligeramente inclinada, en un gesto que parece a la vez una demostración de poder y una invitación al juego. Su cola, larga y espesa, barre el aire, completando el arco de su cuerpo.
Frente a él, su compañero, o quizás su joven rival en esta danza, responde al gesto. No está tan erguido, pero su cuerpo también vibra de energía. Sus patas delanteras se levantan del suelo, listo para responder, para saltar, para unirse al baile. Su mirada es directa, sus ojos abiertos y llenos de una chispa de sorpresa o desafío. Su crin, más corta y alborotada, le da un aire de indómita juventud.
El fondo enmarca la escena sin robarle protagonismo. Unos matorrales de un verde resistente y unos juncos altos hablan de un entorno natural, quizás cerca de un humedal o una marisma. El cielo, de un azul pálido y despejado, baña la escena con una luz clara y directa, de esas que hacen que cada detalle, cada músculo y cada brizna de hierba, resalten con una nitidez asombrosa. En resumen, observo, pues, no solo dos caballos; me deleito en un diálogo sin palabras, una explosión de fuerza, un ballet de instintos puros bajo un cielo abierto.
Lo que me hace sentir la Imagen
Lo que esta imagen me grita, con la fuerza de un relincho en la llanura, es una palabra: LIBERTAD.
Siento el aire fresco y limpio llenando los pulmones, un aire que huele a campo abierto, a hierba y a polvo levantado por las pezuñas. Cierro los ojos y casi puedo escuchar el silencio del campo, un silencio que no está vacío, sino lleno de vida: el zumbido de los insectos entre los matorrales, el susurro del viento en los juncos y, sobre todo, el sonido potente de los caballos. Escucho el resoplido hondo que sale de sus fosas nasales, el golpeteo sordo de sus cascos contra la tierra compacta, el crujido de sus músculos en tensión.
Siento en la piel el calor del sol, esa caricia cálida que no quema, sino que energiza. Y me llega ese olor inconfundible a tierra viva, a naturaleza sin filtros, que me recuerda al petricor que se desata tras una lluvia pasajera, esa fragancia que es el perfume del alma del campo. Es la libertad de no tener silla que oprima el lomo, ni riendas que dicten el camino. Es la libertad de ser, en su estado más puro y salvaje; la alegría de sentir la fuerza en las propias extremidades y el viento en las crines. Sencillamente, una sensación de plenitud, de pertenecer a la tierra y al cielo, sin más ley que la del propio instinto.
La Anécdota Detrás de la imagen
El viejo “Ventarrón” tenía el pelaje blanco por los años, pero el alma la conservaba del color del fuego. Cada atardecer, en ese claro junto a la marisma, le gustaba enseñarle al joven “Relámpago” los secretos que no se aprenden en las carreras, sino en el silencio del corazón. Relámpago, con su crin alborotada y sus ojos llenos de la soberbia de la juventud, solo pensaba en la velocidad, en ser el primero, en demostrar su fuerza.
Esa tarde, mientras el sol teñía de oro el polvo del camino, Ventarrón lo miró con una ternura que solo dan los años. Veía en el ímpetu del potro el reflejo de lo que él mismo fue. Y entonces, sin previo aviso, se irguió sobre sus patas traseras, no con furia, sino con la elegancia de un rey que reclama su trono de aire. Su sombra se alargó sobre Relámpago, que se detuvo en seco, con el corazón galopándole en el pecho.
Ventarrón, desde su altura, parecía decirle con el lenguaje del viento y el músculo: “Cuando el amor llega así de esta manera, uno no se da ni cuenta…”, recordando los pasajes escuchados muchas veces de Simón Díaz y su «Caballo Viejo». Y no hablaba del amor de una yegua, sino del amor a la vida, a ese instante preciso de libertad. Relámpago lo miraba fijamente, comprendiendo por primera vez que la fuerza no solo estaba en la velocidad, sino en la capacidad de detener el tiempo con un solo gesto.
El viejo caballo sabía bien lo que cantaba el viento en la sabana. Sabía que “el potro da tiempo al tiempo, porque le sobra la edad”, citando nuevamente un pasaje de la inmortal canción «Caballo Viejo». Relámpago tenía toda una vida para correr. Pero él, Ventarrón, ya no tenía tiempo que perder. Cada brinco, cada resoplido, cada lección era un tesoro. Con su baile, le estaba enseñando la verdad más grande del llano: “Caballo viejo no puede perder la flor que le dan, porque después de esta vida, no hay otra oportunidad.” [Ident]
Y allí estaban los dos, maestro y aprendiz, el tiempo y la vida, danzando bajo el cielo abierto. No eran solo dos caballos jugando; eran el espíritu de la sabana, hecha carne, un poema vivo que recordaba a todo el que los viera que la verdadera libertad no es más que aprovechar, con el corazón desbocado, la única oportunidad que tenemos.
Lo que observo más allá de la imagen
Ver es simplemente percibir con los ojos; mirar es enfocar la vista en algo. Pero observar, como bien dices, es desmenuzar la escena con todos los sentidos, es permitir que la imagen nos cuente su historia en silencio. Y lo que observo aquí es un instante congelado de pura energía vital.
Tomada de la iniciativa, cortesía de Pixabay
En un ruedo de tierra suelta, un lienzo ocre que delata juegos y carreras, dos magníficos caballos blancos son los dueños absolutos de la escena. No son de un blanco impoluto, de cuento de hadas, sino de un blanco real, manchado por el polvo y el sudor, las marcas de una vida vivida sin ataduras. El caballo de la izquierda se alza majestuoso sobre sus patas traseras, un monumento efímero a la fuerza. Su cuerpo es una curva tensa de músculos poderosos, su crin, larga y de un rubio platino, se sacude como una llamarada con el movimiento. Su cabeza está ligeramente inclinada, en un gesto que parece a la vez una demostración de poder y una invitación al juego. Su cola, larga y espesa, barre el aire, completando el arco de su cuerpo.
Frente a él, su compañero, o quizás su joven rival en esta danza, responde al gesto. No está tan erguido, pero su cuerpo también vibra de energía. Sus patas delanteras se levantan del suelo, listo para responder, para saltar, para unirse al baile. Su mirada es directa, sus ojos abiertos y llenos de una chispa de sorpresa o desafío. Su crin, más corta y alborotada, le da un aire de indómita juventud.
El fondo enmarca la escena sin robarle protagonismo. Unos matorrales de un verde resistente y unos juncos altos hablan de un entorno natural, quizás cerca de un humedal o una marisma. El cielo, de un azul pálido y despejado, baña la escena con una luz clara y directa, de esas que hacen que cada detalle, cada músculo y cada brizna de hierba, resalten con una nitidez asombrosa. En resumen, observo, pues, no solo dos caballos; me deleito en un diálogo sin palabras, una explosión de fuerza, un ballet de instintos puros bajo un cielo abierto.
Lo que me hace sentir la Imagen
Lo que esta imagen me grita, con la fuerza de un relincho en la llanura, es una palabra: LIBERTAD.
Siento el aire fresco y limpio llenando los pulmones, un aire que huele a campo abierto, a hierba y a polvo levantado por las pezuñas. Cierro los ojos y casi puedo escuchar el silencio del campo, un silencio que no está vacío, sino lleno de vida: el zumbido de los insectos entre los matorrales, el susurro del viento en los juncos y, sobre todo, el sonido potente de los caballos. Escucho el resoplido hondo que sale de sus fosas nasales, el golpeteo sordo de sus cascos contra la tierra compacta, el crujido de sus músculos en tensión.
Siento en la piel el calor del sol, esa caricia cálida que no quema, sino que energiza. Y me llega ese olor inconfundible a tierra viva, a naturaleza sin filtros, que me recuerda al petricor que se desata tras una lluvia pasajera, esa fragancia que es el perfume del alma del campo. Es la libertad de no tener silla que oprima el lomo, ni riendas que dicten el camino. Es la libertad de ser, en su estado más puro y salvaje; la alegría de sentir la fuerza en las propias extremidades y el viento en las crines. Sencillamente, una sensación de plenitud, de pertenecer a la tierra y al cielo, sin más ley que la del propio instinto.
La Anécdota Detrás de la imagen
El viejo “Ventarrón” tenía el pelaje blanco por los años, pero el alma la conservaba del color del fuego. Cada atardecer, en ese claro junto a la marisma, le gustaba enseñarle al joven “Relámpago” los secretos que no se aprenden en las carreras, sino en el silencio del corazón. Relámpago, con su crin alborotada y sus ojos llenos de la soberbia de la juventud, solo pensaba en la velocidad, en ser el primero, en demostrar su fuerza.
Esa tarde, mientras el sol teñía de oro el polvo del camino, Ventarrón lo miró con una ternura que solo dan los años. Veía en el ímpetu del potro el reflejo de lo que él mismo fue. Y entonces, sin previo aviso, se irguió sobre sus patas traseras, no con furia, sino con la elegancia de un rey que reclama su trono de aire. Su sombra se alargó sobre Relámpago, que se detuvo en seco, con el corazón galopándole en el pecho.
Ventarrón, desde su altura, parecía decirle con el lenguaje del viento y el músculo: “Cuando el amor llega así de esta manera, uno no se da ni cuenta…”, recordando los pasajes escuchados muchas veces de Simón Díaz y su «Caballo Viejo». Y no hablaba del amor de una yegua, sino del amor a la vida, a ese instante preciso de libertad. Relámpago lo miraba fijamente, comprendiendo por primera vez que la fuerza no solo estaba en la velocidad, sino en la capacidad de detener el tiempo con un solo gesto.
El viejo caballo sabía bien lo que cantaba el viento en la sabana. Sabía que “el potro da tiempo al tiempo, porque le sobra la edad”, citando nuevamente un pasaje de la inmortal canción «Caballo Viejo». Relámpago tenía toda una vida para correr. Pero él, Ventarrón, ya no tenía tiempo que perder. Cada brinco, cada resoplido, cada lección era un tesoro. Con su baile, le estaba enseñando la verdad más grande del llano: “Caballo viejo no puede perder la flor que le dan, porque después de esta vida, no hay otra oportunidad.” [Ident]
Y allí estaban los dos, maestro y aprendiz, el tiempo y la vida, danzando bajo el cielo abierto. No eran solo dos caballos jugando; eran el espíritu de la sabana, hecha carne, un poema vivo que recordaba a todo el que los viera que la verdadera libertad no es más que aprovechar, con el corazón desbocado, la única oportunidad que tenemos.
Cómo participar, aún estás a tiempo…
Una imagen vale más que mil palabras
Portada de la iniciativa.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
When the Heart is a Wild Colt
What I see beyond the image
Seeing is simply perceiving with the eyes; looking is focusing the gaze on something. But observing, as you say, is breaking down the scene with all the senses, allowing the image to silently tell us its story. And what I observe here is a frozen instant of pure vital energy.
Taken from the initiative, courtesy of Pixabay
In an arena of loose earth, an ochre canvas that betrays games and races, two magnificent white horses are the absolute masters of the scene. They are not a pristine, fairy-tale white, but a royal white, stained by dust and sweat, the marks of a life lived untethered. The horse on the left stands majestically on its hind legs, an ephemeral monument to strength. Its body is a taut curve of powerful muscles, its long, platinum-blond mane whipping like a flame with the movement. Its head is slightly tilted, in a gesture that seems both a demonstration of power and an invitation to play. His long, bushy tail sweeps through the air, completing the arc of his body.
In front of him, his partner, or perhaps his young rival in this dance, responds to the gesture. He isn't as upright, but his body also vibrates with energy. His front legs are lifted off the ground, ready to respond, to leap, to join the dance. His gaze is direct, his eyes wide open and filled with a spark of surprise or defiance. His shorter, tousled mane gives him an air of untamed youth.
The background frames the scene without stealing its spotlight. Tough, green bushes and tall reeds evoke a natural setting, perhaps near a wetland or marsh. The sky, a pale, clear blue, bathes the scene in a clear, direct light, the kind that makes every detail, every muscle, and every blade of grass stand out with astonishing clarity. In short, I'm observing not just two horses; I delight in a dialogue without words, an explosion of strength, a ballet of pure instincts under an open sky.
What the Image Makes Me Feel
What this image screams at me, with the force of a whinny on the plain, is one word: FREEDOM.
I feel the fresh, clean air filling my lungs, an air that smells of open fields, grass, and dust stirred up by hooves. I close my eyes and can almost hear the silence of the countryside, a silence that isn't empty, but full of life: the buzzing of insects in the bushes, the whisper of the wind in the reeds, and, above all, the powerful sound of the horses. I hear the deep snort that comes from their nostrils, the dull thud of their hooves against the compact earth, the creaking of their tensed muscles.
I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, that warm caress that doesn't burn, but energizes. And I'm struck by that unmistakable scent of living earth, of unfiltered nature, reminiscent of the petrichor that unleashes after a passing rain, that fragrance that is the perfume of the soul of the countryside. It's the freedom of not having a saddle to oppress your back, or reins to dictate your path. It's the freedom of being, in its purest and wildest state; the joy of feeling the strength in your limbs and the wind in your mane. Simply a feeling of fulfilment, of belonging to the earth and the sky, with no law other than that of your instinct.
The Anecdote Behind It All
Old "Ventarrón"'s coat was white with age, but his soul remained the color of fire. Every evening, in that clearing by the marsh, he liked to teach young "Relámpago" the secrets that are not learned in races, but in the silence of the heart. Relámpago, with his tousled mane and his eyes filled with the pride of youth, thought only of speed, of being first, of demonstrating his strength.
That afternoon, as the sun tinged the dust of the road with gold, Ventarrón looked at him with a tenderness that only years can bring. He saw in the colt's momentum the reflection of what he himself had been. And then, without warning, he reared up on his hind legs, not in fury, but with the elegance of a king reclaiming his throne of air. His shadow lengthened over Relámpago, who stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest.
From his height, Ventrón seemed to say to him in the language of wind and muscle: “When love comes like this, one doesn't even realize it…”, recalling the passages heard many times from Simón Díaz and his “Caballo Viejo.” And he wasn't speaking of the love of a mare, but of the love of life, of that precise moment of freedom. Lightning stared at him, understanding for the first time that strength lay not only in speed, but in the ability to stop time with a single gesture.
The old horse knew well what the wind sang in the savannah. He knew that “a colt gives time to time, because he has plenty of age”, quoting again a passage from the immortal song “Caballo Viejo.” Lightning had a whole life to run. But he, Ventrón, no longer had time to waste. Every leap, every snort, every lesson was a treasure. With his dance, he was teaching him the greatest truth of the plains: “An old horse cannot lose the flower he is given, because after this life, there is no other chance.” [Ident]
And there they were, master and apprentice, time and life, dancing under the open sky. They weren't just two horses playing; they were the spirit of the savannah, made flesh, a living poem that reminded all who saw them that true freedom is nothing more than seizing, with a racing heart, the only chance we have.
Come ɑnd pɑɾticipɑte becɑuse γou still hɑve, time…
A Pictuɾe Is Woɾth A Thousɑnd Woɾds
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Cómo participar, aún estás a tiempo…
Una imagen vale más que mil palabras
Portada de la iniciativa.
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
When the Heart is a Wild Colt
What I see beyond the image
Seeing is simply perceiving with the eyes; looking is focusing the gaze on something. But observing, as you say, is breaking down the scene with all the senses, allowing the image to silently tell us its story. And what I observe here is a frozen instant of pure vital energy.
Taken from the initiative, courtesy of Pixabay
In an arena of loose earth, an ochre canvas that betrays games and races, two magnificent white horses are the absolute masters of the scene. They are not a pristine, fairy-tale white, but a royal white, stained by dust and sweat, the marks of a life lived untethered. The horse on the left stands majestically on its hind legs, an ephemeral monument to strength. Its body is a taut curve of powerful muscles, its long, platinum-blond mane whipping like a flame with the movement. Its head is slightly tilted, in a gesture that seems both a demonstration of power and an invitation to play. His long, bushy tail sweeps through the air, completing the arc of his body.
In front of him, his partner, or perhaps his young rival in this dance, responds to the gesture. He isn't as upright, but his body also vibrates with energy. His front legs are lifted off the ground, ready to respond, to leap, to join the dance. His gaze is direct, his eyes wide open and filled with a spark of surprise or defiance. His shorter, tousled mane gives him an air of untamed youth.
The background frames the scene without stealing its spotlight. Tough, green bushes and tall reeds evoke a natural setting, perhaps near a wetland or marsh. The sky, a pale, clear blue, bathes the scene in a clear, direct light, the kind that makes every detail, every muscle, and every blade of grass stand out with astonishing clarity. In short, I'm observing not just two horses; I delight in a dialogue without words, an explosion of strength, a ballet of pure instincts under an open sky.
What the Image Makes Me Feel
What this image screams at me, with the force of a whinny on the plain, is one word: FREEDOM.
I feel the fresh, clean air filling my lungs, an air that smells of open fields, grass, and dust stirred up by hooves. I close my eyes and can almost hear the silence of the countryside, a silence that isn't empty, but full of life: the buzzing of insects in the bushes, the whisper of the wind in the reeds, and, above all, the powerful sound of the horses. I hear the deep snort that comes from their nostrils, the dull thud of their hooves against the compact earth, the creaking of their tensed muscles.
I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, that warm caress that doesn't burn, but energizes. And I'm struck by that unmistakable scent of living earth, of unfiltered nature, reminiscent of the petrichor that unleashes after a passing rain, that fragrance that is the perfume of the soul of the countryside. It's the freedom of not having a saddle to oppress your back, or reins to dictate your path. It's the freedom of being, in its purest and wildest state; the joy of feeling the strength in your limbs and the wind in your mane. Simply a feeling of fulfilment, of belonging to the earth and the sky, with no law other than that of your instinct.
The Anecdote Behind It All
Old "Ventarrón"'s coat was white with age, but his soul remained the color of fire. Every evening, in that clearing by the marsh, he liked to teach young "Relámpago" the secrets that are not learned in races, but in the silence of the heart. Relámpago, with his tousled mane and his eyes filled with the pride of youth, thought only of speed, of being first, of demonstrating his strength.
That afternoon, as the sun tinged the dust of the road with gold, Ventarrón looked at him with a tenderness that only years can bring. He saw in the colt's momentum the reflection of what he himself had been. And then, without warning, he reared up on his hind legs, not in fury, but with the elegance of a king reclaiming his throne of air. His shadow lengthened over Relámpago, who stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest.
From his height, Ventrón seemed to say to him in the language of wind and muscle: “When love comes like this, one doesn't even realize it…”, recalling the passages heard many times from Simón Díaz and his “Caballo Viejo.” And he wasn't speaking of the love of a mare, but of the love of life, of that precise moment of freedom. Lightning stared at him, understanding for the first time that strength lay not only in speed, but in the ability to stop time with a single gesture.
The old horse knew well what the wind sang in the savannah. He knew that “a colt gives time to time, because he has plenty of age”, quoting again a passage from the immortal song “Caballo Viejo.” Lightning had a whole life to run. But he, Ventrón, no longer had time to waste. Every leap, every snort, every lesson was a treasure. With his dance, he was teaching him the greatest truth of the plains: “An old horse cannot lose the flower he is given, because after this life, there is no other chance.” [Ident]
And there they were, master and apprentice, time and life, dancing under the open sky. They weren't just two horses playing; they were the spirit of the savannah, made flesh, a living poem that reminded all who saw them that true freedom is nothing more than seizing, with a racing heart, the only chance we have.
Come ɑnd pɑɾticipɑte becɑuse γou still hɑve, time…
A Pictuɾe Is Woɾth A Thousɑnd Woɾds
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Dedicado a todos aquellos que contribuyen, día a día, a hacer de este planeta un mundo mejor.
When the Heart is a Wild Colt
What I see beyond the image
Seeing is simply perceiving with the eyes; looking is focusing the gaze on something. But observing, as you say, is breaking down the scene with all the senses, allowing the image to silently tell us its story. And what I observe here is a frozen instant of pure vital energy.
Taken from the initiative, courtesy of Pixabay
In an arena of loose earth, an ochre canvas that betrays games and races, two magnificent white horses are the absolute masters of the scene. They are not a pristine, fairy-tale white, but a royal white, stained by dust and sweat, the marks of a life lived untethered. The horse on the left stands majestically on its hind legs, an ephemeral monument to strength. Its body is a taut curve of powerful muscles, its long, platinum-blond mane whipping like a flame with the movement. Its head is slightly tilted, in a gesture that seems both a demonstration of power and an invitation to play. His long, bushy tail sweeps through the air, completing the arc of his body.
In front of him, his partner, or perhaps his young rival in this dance, responds to the gesture. He isn't as upright, but his body also vibrates with energy. His front legs are lifted off the ground, ready to respond, to leap, to join the dance. His gaze is direct, his eyes wide open and filled with a spark of surprise or defiance. His shorter, tousled mane gives him an air of untamed youth.
The background frames the scene without stealing its spotlight. Tough, green bushes and tall reeds evoke a natural setting, perhaps near a wetland or marsh. The sky, a pale, clear blue, bathes the scene in a clear, direct light, the kind that makes every detail, every muscle, and every blade of grass stand out with astonishing clarity. In short, I'm observing not just two horses; I delight in a dialogue without words, an explosion of strength, a ballet of pure instincts under an open sky.
What the Image Makes Me Feel
What this image screams at me, with the force of a whinny on the plain, is one word: FREEDOM.
I feel the fresh, clean air filling my lungs, an air that smells of open fields, grass, and dust stirred up by hooves. I close my eyes and can almost hear the silence of the countryside, a silence that isn't empty, but full of life: the buzzing of insects in the bushes, the whisper of the wind in the reeds, and, above all, the powerful sound of the horses. I hear the deep snort that comes from their nostrils, the dull thud of their hooves against the compact earth, the creaking of their tensed muscles.
I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, that warm caress that doesn't burn, but energizes. And I'm struck by that unmistakable scent of living earth, of unfiltered nature, reminiscent of the petrichor that unleashes after a passing rain, that fragrance that is the perfume of the soul of the countryside. It's the freedom of not having a saddle to oppress your back, or reins to dictate your path. It's the freedom of being, in its purest and wildest state; the joy of feeling the strength in your limbs and the wind in your mane. Simply a feeling of fulfilment, of belonging to the earth and the sky, with no law other than that of your instinct.
The Anecdote Behind It All
Old "Ventarrón"'s coat was white with age, but his soul remained the color of fire. Every evening, in that clearing by the marsh, he liked to teach young "Relámpago" the secrets that are not learned in races, but in the silence of the heart. Relámpago, with his tousled mane and his eyes filled with the pride of youth, thought only of speed, of being first, of demonstrating his strength.
That afternoon, as the sun tinged the dust of the road with gold, Ventarrón looked at him with a tenderness that only years can bring. He saw in the colt's momentum the reflection of what he himself had been. And then, without warning, he reared up on his hind legs, not in fury, but with the elegance of a king reclaiming his throne of air. His shadow lengthened over Relámpago, who stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest.
From his height, Ventrón seemed to say to him in the language of wind and muscle: “When love comes like this, one doesn't even realize it…”, recalling the passages heard many times from Simón Díaz and his “Caballo Viejo.” And he wasn't speaking of the love of a mare, but of the love of life, of that precise moment of freedom. Lightning stared at him, understanding for the first time that strength lay not only in speed, but in the ability to stop time with a single gesture.
The old horse knew well what the wind sang in the savannah. He knew that “a colt gives time to time, because he has plenty of age”, quoting again a passage from the immortal song “Caballo Viejo.” Lightning had a whole life to run. But he, Ventrón, no longer had time to waste. Every leap, every snort, every lesson was a treasure. With his dance, he was teaching him the greatest truth of the plains: “An old horse cannot lose the flower he is given, because after this life, there is no other chance.” [Ident]
And there they were, master and apprentice, time and life, dancing under the open sky. They weren't just two horses playing; they were the spirit of the savannah, made flesh, a living poem that reminded all who saw them that true freedom is nothing more than seizing, with a racing heart, the only chance we have.
What I see beyond the image
Seeing is simply perceiving with the eyes; looking is focusing the gaze on something. But observing, as you say, is breaking down the scene with all the senses, allowing the image to silently tell us its story. And what I observe here is a frozen instant of pure vital energy.
Taken from the initiative, courtesy of Pixabay
In an arena of loose earth, an ochre canvas that betrays games and races, two magnificent white horses are the absolute masters of the scene. They are not a pristine, fairy-tale white, but a royal white, stained by dust and sweat, the marks of a life lived untethered. The horse on the left stands majestically on its hind legs, an ephemeral monument to strength. Its body is a taut curve of powerful muscles, its long, platinum-blond mane whipping like a flame with the movement. Its head is slightly tilted, in a gesture that seems both a demonstration of power and an invitation to play. His long, bushy tail sweeps through the air, completing the arc of his body.
In front of him, his partner, or perhaps his young rival in this dance, responds to the gesture. He isn't as upright, but his body also vibrates with energy. His front legs are lifted off the ground, ready to respond, to leap, to join the dance. His gaze is direct, his eyes wide open and filled with a spark of surprise or defiance. His shorter, tousled mane gives him an air of untamed youth.
The background frames the scene without stealing its spotlight. Tough, green bushes and tall reeds evoke a natural setting, perhaps near a wetland or marsh. The sky, a pale, clear blue, bathes the scene in a clear, direct light, the kind that makes every detail, every muscle, and every blade of grass stand out with astonishing clarity. In short, I'm observing not just two horses; I delight in a dialogue without words, an explosion of strength, a ballet of pure instincts under an open sky.
What the Image Makes Me Feel
What this image screams at me, with the force of a whinny on the plain, is one word: FREEDOM.
I feel the fresh, clean air filling my lungs, an air that smells of open fields, grass, and dust stirred up by hooves. I close my eyes and can almost hear the silence of the countryside, a silence that isn't empty, but full of life: the buzzing of insects in the bushes, the whisper of the wind in the reeds, and, above all, the powerful sound of the horses. I hear the deep snort that comes from their nostrils, the dull thud of their hooves against the compact earth, the creaking of their tensed muscles.
I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, that warm caress that doesn't burn, but energizes. And I'm struck by that unmistakable scent of living earth, of unfiltered nature, reminiscent of the petrichor that unleashes after a passing rain, that fragrance that is the perfume of the soul of the countryside. It's the freedom of not having a saddle to oppress your back, or reins to dictate your path. It's the freedom of being, in its purest and wildest state; the joy of feeling the strength in your limbs and the wind in your mane. Simply a feeling of fulfilment, of belonging to the earth and the sky, with no law other than that of your instinct.
The Anecdote Behind It All
Old "Ventarrón"'s coat was white with age, but his soul remained the color of fire. Every evening, in that clearing by the marsh, he liked to teach young "Relámpago" the secrets that are not learned in races, but in the silence of the heart. Relámpago, with his tousled mane and his eyes filled with the pride of youth, thought only of speed, of being first, of demonstrating his strength.
That afternoon, as the sun tinged the dust of the road with gold, Ventarrón looked at him with a tenderness that only years can bring. He saw in the colt's momentum the reflection of what he himself had been. And then, without warning, he reared up on his hind legs, not in fury, but with the elegance of a king reclaiming his throne of air. His shadow lengthened over Relámpago, who stopped dead in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest.
From his height, Ventrón seemed to say to him in the language of wind and muscle: “When love comes like this, one doesn't even realize it…”, recalling the passages heard many times from Simón Díaz and his “Caballo Viejo.” And he wasn't speaking of the love of a mare, but of the love of life, of that precise moment of freedom. Lightning stared at him, understanding for the first time that strength lay not only in speed, but in the ability to stop time with a single gesture.
The old horse knew well what the wind sang in the savannah. He knew that “a colt gives time to time, because he has plenty of age”, quoting again a passage from the immortal song “Caballo Viejo.” Lightning had a whole life to run. But he, Ventrón, no longer had time to waste. Every leap, every snort, every lesson was a treasure. With his dance, he was teaching him the greatest truth of the plains: “An old horse cannot lose the flower he is given, because after this life, there is no other chance.” [Ident]
And there they were, master and apprentice, time and life, dancing under the open sky. They weren't just two horses playing; they were the spirit of the savannah, made flesh, a living poem that reminded all who saw them that true freedom is nothing more than seizing, with a racing heart, the only chance we have.
Come ɑnd pɑɾticipɑte becɑuse γou still hɑve, time…
A Pictuɾe Is Woɾth A Thousɑnd Woɾds
Cover of the initiative.
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Come ɑnd pɑɾticipɑte becɑuse γou still hɑve, time…
A Pictuɾe Is Woɾth A Thousɑnd Woɾds
Cover of the initiative.
I am dedicated to all those who contribute daily to make our planet ɑ a better world.
Hermosa combinación de momentos el maestro y el aprendiz dos fuerzas vitales. Una semana de éxito. Un abrazo.
A beautiful combination of moments: the master and the apprentice, two vital forces. A successful week. Hugs
Gracias, amiga por su presencia. Me alegra que le haya gustado, ya que en Venezuela, esta semana se están haciendo algunos eventos para honrar la memoria de Simóne Díaze (Tío Simón).
This is exceptionally beautiful. These horses have much to teach us about life and freedom, indeed.
Thank you, my friend. I have lived, felt, and experienced that freedom. Blessings.
What you shared is so much better than the picture. In a way both, description plus story, leaves me with an immense sadness. Freedom is what is missed most and the moment we discover we never had it, it's at the end.
Thank you for your reflection.