What does this proud mare see across so much desolate land?
She sees back to the wild drinkers of wind; the magic born of clouds and sand.
She sees her children and her childrenâs children,
the desertâs flowers;Â untouched by men.
She sees the delicate head shaped by Godâs hand,Â
flared nostrils and flagged tail; a special brand.
She sees the swift and brave conquer,
the proud and and showy saunter.
She sees the blood of her motherâs mother;Â flowing thick and loyal and true,
through the veins of a dainty foal, who knows everything she knew.
She sees wild storms of rage and dust,
creatures cower and cry, she stands strong; nonplussed.
She sees bright eyes of intelligence and trust,
built for endurance, an insatiable wanderlust.
She sees on wings of gathering dusk,
the inherent savor of camels and carpets and musk.
She sees bands of quiet mares, pacing in the moonlight,
hooves so soft and silent; giving night owls a fright.
She sees ears; perked with caution,
predatory movements, long legs strangers to exhaustion.
She sees the desert sun; a burning hand it doesnât lack,
caressing glittering coats of chestnut, bay, gray, black.
She sees the flaming dawn of her birth and her home,
the place of her ancestors, her children, a place all her own.
She sees the freedom of sand and sun and sky,
freedom to roam and run and breath and fly.
She sees the peril of a land so torn by war and pride,
but stands loyal by her home and at her masterâs side.
She sees the gentle touch of wise and caring men,
soft coats accepting, patient through manâs violent sin.
She sees the windswept mane of a filly carved from sand,
and knows her kind will never leave this harsh but beautiful land.
jacobvanloon
snowghoul
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
vaporwave
