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It chooses to lower its head—not because the wind and frost weigh too heavily, but because it knows:
the true roar of a loong comes not from the clouds, but from the earth itself.

Behold this loong-horse in quietude:
Horns keen as blades, yet tempered in restraint;
hooves forged like iron, only to converse with the soil.
No soaring, no clamor—
just steady advance,
like an epic waiting to be inscribed.

Men ever expect loongs to dance among celestial spheres,
steeds to trample fleeting swallows mid-flight.
Yet this one elects to bend its neck,
to pace with measured grace,
to cloak its unbreakable spirit in this posture of humility.
For only the loong that masters kneeling earns the right to ultimate ascent.

Are we not mirrors of its truth?
In our springtime, we strain upward toward the firmament—
until wisdom whispers:
profoundest power springs from the weightiest tread;
the farthest roads unspool from the deepest bow.

On it moves, neither rushed nor slackened.
And the world, grain by grain,
yields passage.

2023年7月9日新增