Before the rivers learned to sing,
before the grasses wove their golden carpets across the earth,
the plains stretched wide and silent,
waiting for the first true thunder to come —
not from the sky, but from the living earth itself.
The Creator, looking upon the vast empty spaces,
knew that the people would need more than shelter and food.
They would need something to teach them what it meant to move with the wind,
to trust the unseen currents,
to run not out of fear, but for the joy of being alive.
And so, from the breath of the wildest storms
and the laughter of the morning sun,
the Horse was born.
Its hooves struck the ground like drumbeats of freedom.
Its mane carried the whispered songs of the open sky.
Its heart pulsed with the same wild rhythms as the growing grass and the running rivers.
The Creator spoke:
"You will not belong to any one man.
You will belong to the earth,
and to those whose spirits are brave enough to ride with you, not against you."
And so the Horse ran —
across the plains where no fence could hold it,
across the valleys where the rivers dared not yet carve their paths.
It did not seek to rule the land,
only to move with it,
to carry dreams across distances too great for human feet alone.
Among the people, it is said:
When a Horse gallops beneath the setting sun,
it does not flee.
It sings.
It sings of freedom, of trust, of the deep bond between soul and earth.
To ride with the Horse is not to command,
but to join —
to become part of the endless dance between sky and stone,
wind and blood.
Even now, when the grasses ripple like rivers of gold,
and the horizon shimmers with heat and hope,
those who listen closely will hear it:
The drumming of hooves,
the song of spirits in motion,
the living memory of a world that refuses to be tamed.
Because the plains remember the Horse —
and through it,
we are asked to remember the wildness that still stirs within us.
