The Legend of the Patchouli Unicorn
In very distant times, on the road of the gypsies who never sleep, a traveling circus troupe crisscrossed towns and villages. These vagabond artists attracted, with magic and artifice, more than one curious person; it was because their carousel of intrepid horses caused gossip and caused a trail of powder throughout Andalusia.
At the head of this equestrian arena, a splendid filly named Patchouli attracted all eyes... With full hooves, it was she who led the circus parades. She was recognized by her proud carriage; she never bent her spine. The shiny leather of her dress, her braids braided with gold and rubies, her gallops of unequaled tempo and her captivating dances earned her, each time, wild ovations from the captivated crowds.
But Patchouli was sad... Her opaque blinkers hid eyelids bored by this repetitive daily life where the same arabesques, the same capers followed one another, from night to night, year after year... Rebel at heart and stubborn in her hair, Patchouli hid her bohemian heart... When she happened to leave her rank to indulge in a few creative strides, people sharply reproached her intuitions, immediately tightening her reins at the cost of a few lashes of the untamed whip.
One moonlit evening, trotting with the troop through the maze of a distant suburb, Patchouli stared at the immensity of the sky and had a waking dream. A distant murmur repeated to her, in a sweet echo, the caress of this refrain:
“Come back to your land, brave rider, come back to your mother, Patchouli my dearest…”
Patchouli was deeply touched by this whisper from the far-away-away, which had crossed deserts and valleys to reach her heart. She recognized deep within herself the music of this breath, of this wind... Then, she continued on her way, inhabited by the tranquility of this mysterious night poem...
“Come back to your land, brave rider, come back to your mother, Patchouli my dearest…”
The next day, sitting backstage at a packed city amphitheater, Patchouli stared at the horizon of the unknown, which attracted her like a magic magnet. As the doors opened, the crowd chanted her name; the shouts and screams that erupted from everywhere bounced off the canvas of the two-tone big top in deafening din...
With fire in her chest, Patchouli was determined... It was her last lap. Half-smiling, she charged into the arena with a fierce and rhythmic stride. At her first turn, Patchouli gave a headbutt that made her blinkers twirl like delirious castanets, then she executed a flamboyant backbend that unsheathed her halter and tore her stage outfit. She ran faster and faster and her cadence became furious... She advanced, her mane disheveled, in this gust of energy, until the moment when a glittering horn began to swirl on her receding hairline and crowned her, like a sword of destiny, as a queen of liberty.
Patchouli the unicorn came out of the big top under the gaze of thousands of astonished eyes, hypnotized by the dull ride of her casual legs.
It is said that Patchouli galloped for several days, carried by a zingaro song that gave her the strength to reach the end of the horizon-of-nowhere. Out of sap, at the twilight of a new morning, she saw her first ray of sunlight burst forth from the side of a rainbow. Patchouli bowed her head for the first time in her life, in reverence to so many
beauty and light. She planted her horn of youth in this fertile land, giving her name to the sunny pampas whose majestic scenery only drew dawns of carefree days. Even today, one hears, once a year, in the northern plains where it is never so cold, a gypsy hymn syncopated by all the hooves of the horses of the earth which harmonize with the hippie neighing of Patchouli's unicorn...
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