From birth they run
with instincts of wild ponies,
free of shoes and stockings,
dashing randomly through trees.
They too have been warned
of broken glass, gravel,
burrs, scorpions, yet
they scatter without warning,
galloping after an uncertain scent.
They cut heels, smash toes, anything
for the pleasure of bare skin
against grass, mud, tree bark,
rain puddle, cutting snow,
bound only by their urge
to scamper unshod and unshoed.
Neither reason nor fear
will deter these descendants
of satyrs and unicorns.
Reason turns them into stones;
fear into swans with no water.