The mighty ox is a picture of resilience, certainty and admitted stubbornness. I had a lot of fun with this interpretation of the zodiac.
Having imagined the summit, we have promised ourselves to the climb. Limb and life married to the steep steps of our greatest adventures. I hold the colour of my mothers flag between my teeth and meet this faceless giant with hue of whose who from our family tree. I bless these fruits to this giant so clearly raised in a relm void of all of us, uneducated in the ways hoof and horn, hurling its thornless words in hopes of discouraging our nature. The toil of the migration finds us more fit for triumph than the sight of a days breaking, more trying to the cause than the pulse of the river run, more stubborn against the odds than than the timing of seasons cutting their course.
The pitch of the mountains song has no relevance to the heart of the driven herd. Darting north and south to the rhythm of legacy and tradition, no soured stream of doubt can dilute our verve. The fire feeds our bones with the letter of its law. Till the last morsel of fuel, we will feed this furnace, a fierce blaze to raze the hurdles that dare a chance and living. All apologies reserved for the timbre of conflicting dissonance. We hear you graze the flanks of our bulls, grazing on deep seeded dues, we need more we than you to be done with these deeds, so accept the rhetoric reserved for the “other” and hold your tongue.
However long this winding whisper runs, the sound of the finish is power. How can the marrow of the me soften at the sound of sleep when the pastures are promised ten fold at the top. Paved with the nectar of peach blossom, our fetish for the sweeter side of effort drives the herd. Together we claim the finish, nature has offered us strength and the endurance to conquer the miles, to conquer this journey through the years.