I care not
What they think of me.
Those who would, behind cupped hands,
But whisper low
And question the Heritage
From whence I came.
For in my heart
I hold the memories
And quiet strength
Of generations long ago.
But when the spring comes back
And warms the earth once more,
I will remember well
A soft green place,
Where first I took a breath.
And distant meadows clear,
Dotted all about
With others, of my kind.
I shall remember too
Of days between the shafts
And trotting proudly to the Fair,
With caravan of brightly painted hue.
The soft spring rain upon my face
In early morn,
To herald, yet another day.
The summer days on country lanes,
All aglow with Buttercups.
The winter's eve, by campfire glow,
When I did see
An early snowflake fall
And felt a small child
Grasp close my neck and run her fingers
Through my hair, for warmth.
But when that last morn comes
That wicked hand of fate
When all about me dim from view
And all the footprints I did leave
Are covered well by sands of time,
I shall smile at their indifference
And know I was indeed much Blessed
For I was born
A Gypsy Horse.

by Elizabeth DeLeo. 2003.