"What do you see owner, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
An old Grey mare not very wise,
uncertain of habit with far away eyes.
Who drags her hooves and makes no reply
when you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
and forever is lame in a leg or two.
Who, resisting or not, let's you do as you will,
with grooming and feeding, the long day to fill.
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes owner, you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I stand here so still,
as I move at your bidding, as I work at your will.
I am a month old foal with my mother,
she cares for and nurtures me, we love each other.
A playful two-year old with wings at her feet,
hoping there's patience in the trainer she's to meet.
A trusting mount at the age of four,
carries her riders ten miles and more.
At six now I have a foal of my own
who I nurture then teach to live on his own.
As the years go by I raise more foals,
carry more riders on the trails and in shows.
At twenty, only the smallest ride upon by back,
for power and strength is what I lack.
At twenty-five, once more foals play at my knee,
for someplace to put me, a babysitter I'll be.
Now at thirty, dark days lay ahead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
I may be an old mare, and nature is cruel,
it's her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body it crumbles, grace and beauty depart,
now there's a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young foal still dwells
and now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
I am loving and living life over again.
I think the years of life are too few, gone too fast,
and I accept the fact that nothing can last.
So, open your eyes owner, open and see,
not just an old Grey mare, look closer...it's me."
