The wild horses I expected in the clearing
in the woods of peace where my soul
who had not spoken to me for so long
curled up by the fire and sang—
they’re here now, they’re here, the horses!
Oh, how I want to be gentle so they don’t run away.
But oh, how I want to run with them.
Slowly, head bent, hoof tentative, I approach.
And then we are dancing, and I don’t know
why I never knew I was a wild horse,
except, of course, I always knew.
Now touch my face like you know and don’t know
that this wild horse has eaten lightening and duststorms.
Maybe men have tried to break this wild horse,
but she will never tell you because she is busy dancing.
And you can see that it doesn’t matter anyway,
because wild horses are beautiful, unbroken, and sweet.