Spirit of the Wild Flame
Beneath the burning crimson sky,
A shadow carved from wind rides by,
Its mane, a storm of midnight thread,
Its eyes, where ancient stories bled.
Born from the roots of stone and sand,
Painted by the earth’s own hand,
It carries whispers of the plains,
Of roaring fires, of falling rains.
The blood-red sun ignites the air,
A witness to the tribes' despair,
Yet still the wild heart will run,
Beneath the moon, beneath the sun.
It is no beast of bridle’s chain,
It answers only to the flame,
The spirit fierce, untamed, and free,
The pulse of sky, of earth, of sea.
Its hooves still drum forgotten trails,
It rides the winds, it bends the veils,
A guardian of the rebel song,
A fire that burns forever strong.
So when the red horizon cries,
And shadows stretch across the skies,
Know in the wind, the wild remains,
The soul, the horse, the flame unchained.
