He flies swift as the breeze at dawn, sweat trickles down his brown neck as he floats on a cloud of dust. hooves beating out a rhythm to match the jockey's heart. Cheers chanting the sweet name S.B. The owner's heart swells with pride at the beauty standing in the winner's circle. But to the horse it means nothing. The painful sting of the riding crop stills tingles on the hind flesh. Breathing comes in short bursts. He knows it will come again. He longs for the day when he can run free in a field, no one riding him to an endless death. But that day shall not come, for in that day, death will come before the grazing in the field of sweet, dew kissed grass, silence, and the warming of the sun on the old flesh. Though it hates the pain, the horse loves to please its master, and so the cycle shall continue. Pain, and pleasure entwine in the endless circle of life.