From "bacca" fields or those of summer snow,
We, bolting mustangs, freed from fence and care,
In search of fields in which to graze and grow,
Would now achieve what we, yet dreaming, dare.
Our stallion rules where thoroughbreds held sway,
In stately quarters long affirmed as White,
Where doves make nests or hawks determine prey,
And freedom's lamp yet shines supremely bright.
With heads held high, we come prepared to seek
That which may offer us a better chance
Than promise could when prospects yet were bleak,
And hope, yet doubting, was too shy to dance.
From fenced-in fields, we run with tireless stride
Who pause not yet to savor joy or pride.