Oft has the warhorse, the wayworn widowmaker,
with wearied withers been dismissed
from battle, bereft of bit and bridle, 
saddened and saddle-sore, to survive
his final charge, his last campaign—
the paddock, the pack, the stall.
So I speak as a steed strapping in skirmish, 
stronger in winters, now without 
a warrior or a war. I was bred
a weapon, weaned for the watch-fire 
and the horn at dawn, the hoarse
cries of riders rampant in the rush
toward death, daring, undespairing, 
because boldness was their birthright
and their choice. From a colt
I was chosen, broken, raised a chieftain
among chargers, cruel of hoof,
a stampeding sword. Of slaughter
I am now deprived, and of my death-
friends, passed beneath the pastureland,
the bloodless grass that I am given 
to eat, and live. I love the balefire, 
not the hay-bale, the haw and brawl
of the hale champion, the split helm.
Where now the war-mare? 
Where the spur, and the spurnful 
stallion? Where the fight-scarred filly?
They are gone, my glory-herd;
they have galloped to the grave.
Now I await a drafthorse’s doom.
Fate has left me hoary, hobbled—
flouted by peace, and peacetime’s fodder.