with passion and fury I fly across the sands like the wind,
anger in fresh desert furrows, baring my teeth to the wind.
my skin tingles, thrilled, as I imagine his deft touch again,
but moments are not genies nor spirits; they flee like the wind.
I sweep up the dunes, hard and proud, my mane and tail streaming,
stretched out to my limits, straining towards his kisses like the wind.
never has my own kind shown me such tender ministrations,
dismissing my passion as foal’s folly, soon cleansed by the wind.
his adornments are fleeting, but my prince wields his fine sword well,
yet now I stand at the edge of the storm, defying the wind.
I am not to be called, to be caged, to be collared or chained;
try to reign me in, and I will flee like the hot desert wind.