Bobusia

A whip cuts the November sky.
Big eyes soar to the sky.
As if Bobusia wanted to fly.

But it won’t go anywhere from here.
He will walk across this soil, to the gangplank.
And up.
And… you know.

I came especially to see her.
I received photos and videos yesterday….
And her story as a mother.

She’s old.
Not like coal, but old.
She gave birth a week ago.
Nothing new, she’s been giving birth all her life.
But this time the cold November night claimed the foal.
They found him in the yellowed grass, he was no longer breathing. He froze.

“The old woman can’t even give birth to a healthy foal! Too bad, I could have taken it out and killed it right away. And yes, you see, there are only losses here on the farm…” says the farmer and pulls Bobusia by the muzzle with a brutal movement.

She’s up in the air again.
The whip cracks her legs.
A squeal of despair.
I clench my hands into fists.

But I remain silent.
Because for speaking out, he throws me out behind this old, rotten fence dripping with morning rain.

Besides, I have already written to you that horses suffer no less in races and in other sports.
There is some social consent for this beating…

And for the dealer in general – it’s within the norm.

These farming standards almost killed Bobusia. And certainly her child.

We have to make a deposit today.
Because they won’t disconnect the Babies from the rope until the evening when the truck arrives.

And what’s next, you already know…