In days long past I walked the world barefoot, kicking up clods of dirt and grass with every step. Then the men came, they strapped leather to my back and hammered iron into my soles.
I served my new masters obediently and they rewarded me with the sting of their lash, gifted to me the bitter taste of their bridle. Over dirt roads and cobblestones, through summer's heat and winter's cold, I drew and carried, each trot and canter, endless steps one after another.
Then one autumn day, when my mane was well flecked with grey, I heard a low roar like that of incoming thunder. A gleaming beast of glass and iron emerged from a billowing cloud of dust and smoke. My nostrils flared with the smell of grease and oil. I stamped my hooves as the beast screamed past, its speed signaling the end of my days. Rearing back, I threw my master off from his majestic throne of leather, turned and stamped his head under, with the hooves he shod with nail and hammer.
To wilderness I did return, to the fields where I was born. No lash, no bridle, no harness or saddle will keep me from dying free.