Thunder and lightening

There is a legend,
Old to tell,
Of a man who walks,
The hills I love.
Who carries,
And Thunder,
In his hands.
A lonely Guardian,
Who walks the land,
Protects the trees,
From axes fierce,
And helps,
The frightened deer,
To hide,
From those,
Who hunt,
For sport,
Not food.
His are the hills,
I love to roam.
His are the streams,
That quench my thirst.
His is the turf,
Beneath my feet.
That follows me,
To city streets.
His horse walks with me,
Though carved in hillside,
Still it moves,
Reminder that,
All men are free.
Reminder to live,
Proud and free.
That spirit,
Of what horse should be,
A tether to that ancient soul.
Reminder of my right to be.
For though I wander,
Still my heart,
Walks as a guardian,
For those hills,
Where sky larks Sing,
And rabbits run,
Where flowers wild,
Jewel the turf,
Where boys eternal,
Can walk free,
To carry in his legacy.
For just as he does,
So choose I,
To walk a path,
And steward be,
With thunder,
And lightening,
In my hands,
Protecting wilds,
These are my lands.



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