They were declared a battle but a warm dust swirled in the afternoon light, a drama only played out by two white horses against each other. Their eyes flickered, their glistened long-maned heads shone in purest gold of sunlight. Not a fight at all but an ancient dance-a body language two thousand years old.
The horse on the left arose on its two hind legs and assumed a very graceful profile against the blue sky, while the other horse took a few steps backward, the gaze like a steel blade ready to face the counter-action thrown up in the air.
Grasses swayed all around, mute witness of a duel which promised to be more an ode of movement than a fight. Force and grace reconciled here: every stamp of hoof was a verse; every flick of mane, a rhyme.
And as the sun began to tilt westward, the one undeniable truth was: Tomorrow would see both as legends in this field, for else someone would be wearing the victor's garland.