He stands erect,
With flowing mane.
‘Neath wind swept skies,
On sun washed plain.
A noble lineage,
Sprung from Spanish sand.
Now free from royal armor,
And the conquistador’s hand.
His line is old,
His heritage strong.
But his days are numbered,
As time measures on.
For the world of man,
Devours the land.
And leaves little room,
For innocents in his plan.
The land will be empty,
When they no longer remain.
And the world of man forgets,
The beauty of the wild mustang.