The wild stallion
A silhouette in black he stands, So finely etched against the sky; His mane and tail are tossing
high: So tall he stands at sixteen hands. His ears are pricked, his nostrils
flare. He whinnies, calls his mares
around And they obey without a sound And nudge their foals along with
care. His stiffened joins he dares not
show: He could not stand another fight When vanquished disappears
from sight He sighs: each son is future foe.