She says she sees horses whenever her eyes go soft. No soft horse ever won a race without imagining it ahead of time. This is not the first dada revolution. Not the last, either. We need more trumpet players in our bedrooms, and jugglers in the hallways, and there are never enough sea cucumbers in the bath (for guests). The next lover to insult everyone's mother, and propose an alternative to capitalism gets a prize. It's this short text about horses. It's the only poem I could write you, on a night like this, when the daughters of the next revolution call, worried about the ghosts, interrupting all the shaman parties and electronic sound shows. We will live to fight and love each other another day.