“Sound The Bugle” from Spirit

Sound the bugle now – play it just for me

As the seasons change – remember how I used to be

Now I can’t go on – I can’t even start

I’ve got nothing left – just an empty heart

I’m a soldier – wounded so I must give up the fight

There’s nothing more for me – lead me away…

Or leave me lying here

Sound the bugle now – tell them I don’t care

There’s not a road I know – that leads to anywhere

Without a light I fear that I will stumble in the dark

Lay right down – decide not to go on

Then from on high – somewhere in the distance

There’s a voice that calls, “Remember who you are”

If you lose yourself – your courage soon will follow

So be strong tonight – remember who you are

Yeah you’re a soldier now – fighting in a battle

To be free once more – yeah, that’s worth fighting for

His eyes remain fierce in the face of his opposer. Free stars colliding with stone. Though tethered and weakened he remains unbroken.

He faces the man, his captor, with a puff of his chest though being starved, beaten, and dragged from his homeland. He won’t be taken down.

The man faces him, whip in hand. The golden beast recoils, black hair flowing in the whipping wind. The buckskin is pulled into the corral kicking and stomping like a soldier preparing for battle.

Sound the bugle, his wounded eyes seem to say.

A saddle is tightened around his waist and a bridle is forced into his mouth, clipping and snagging his teeth. The man mounts with his spurs piercing the beast’s barrel. The man nods, and the gate slides open.

Run free, is what I want to yell through my containment.

He rears and jumps vertically with monstrous force, but the man clings, unmoved. He rams the fence and fails his mighty legs, but the man remains. He is beginning to strain.

Get off, his eyes say with quiet desperation.

He rolls on the ground with saddle, man, and all. Kicks filled with maximum velocity whoosh in all directions. His control has been vanquished.

He stops, legs shaking beneath him, looking for an escape. Terror consumes his vision, but he is too weak to face it. He remains still.

“No…” I whisper.

The man clicks and slightly taps the mustang’s barrel with his spurs. The mustang’s eyes humble and soften with consent. He drags his feet forward against the sand terrain.

“This, Indian, is how you break a beast.” The man turns the horse toward me.

Our eyes meet and there it is, in the corner of his eyes, a lighter is burning with everlasting glory. He rears once more and follows with a set of the most dynamic kicks a mustang has thrown. The man, unprepared, falls to the dust.

The mustang is a symbol of his homeland. An unbroken spirit of grace and robust. The mustang stands over his torturer.

Here I am, his eyes of stars say. This is me.