The night had kissed the plains with dew,
The sun shone bright that morn,
A gentle breeze played in the grass
On the day that he was born.
The sunlight glistened on his coat,
He was a handsome sight:
No white upon him, every hair
Was black as darkest night.
Running free on Rohan’s plain
He grew in strength and speed
A warrior in the making
To be called upon at need.
Alas! ‘Twas no Rohirric hand
By which he would be tamed;
Stolen by Orcs of Barad-dûr
In Mordor he was trained
To be a Ringwraith’s mount,
To obey the Dark Lord’s will,
To live beneath the Shadow,
With the life within him stilled.
By cruel whip and rein and hand
His noble spirit was broken;
Unnatural endurance to him
Was accorded by dark spells spoken.
Uncounted years he was thus kept
Until the Dark Lord’s ire
Was turned upon a northern land
Known only as the Shire.
Once more he galloped ‘cross the plains
That he’d known as a foal,
Never noticing – his mind
Upon his Master’s goal.
He couldn’t hear the One Ring’s call,
Didn’t know it must be found,
But where his Nazgûl pointed,
There his hooves covered the ground.
North along the King’s Road
To the Shire, then to Bree,
And Weathertop, wherever next
Their quarry chose to flee.
At the Ford of Bruinen
They nearly caught their prey
But they couldn’t cross the river
So he moved to turn away,
But behind them came an elven lord
A foe with torch bright-burning
To drive them into certain death
In the floodwater churning.
Then something in the tumbling froth
Brought to his mind a golden light
On streaming manes and flashing hooves;
He trembled at the sight.
Caught between the torrent ahead
And the blazing fire behind,
A fearful choice; instead he turned
To the memory in his mind.
He recalled the feel of freedom,
Somewhere deep down in his blood
And he neighed as if to greet a friend
And leapt into the flood.