It's a cold winter's night with white snow all around,
The wise owl hoots while he watches the ground.
The moon glows brightly and shimmers on a pond,
A man in the moon looks down at whatever he is fond.
A regal white stallion stands there on the bank,
His transparent coat could be mistaken as a cruel child's prank.
His breath mists as it hits the air,
He stomps his feet and his nostrils flare.
His mane is the wind's friend and his neigh is a whisper,
His stare is crisp but the air's even crisper.
As he stands there in peace he hears a sound,
It's not a gun or a bear or even a hound.
A much graver thing is what he hears,
He nervously snorts and flattens his ears.
From across the pond he espies what he dreads,
Out of the trees poke ten horse heads.
And on their backs, with beady eyes glowing,
Ten men sit in silence, their cold weapons showing.
In equal silence our hero there stands,
He stares at his oppressors and contemplates his plans.
He closes his eyes and makes no sound,
Then all of a sudden he turns around.
He lifts his tail and jumps through the snow,
His enemies spur their horses also.
Over logs and through trees our hero does run,
His life is in peril, he thinks this not fun.
The men whistle and shout their poor horses on,
Soon both parties have long passed the pond.
Our hero gallops faster and faster,
If he is caught it will be a disaster.
For lo! Our horse is none other than,
White Whisper, the long lost horse of a Gypsy caravan.
He is as white as the snow and well built in size,
He is wanted by many for a very great price.
The harsh wild terrain has made him tough,
The creatures have taught him how to be buff.
He has learned all the tricks from others who have been caught,
And the new little foals he has diligently taught.
No one can catch him, of that he is sure,
His freedom he loves and it is surly secure.
But poor White Whisper grows tired of running,
His wits are digressing and so is his cunning.
He slowly lifts one hoof in front of the other,
He lets out a cry but in the wind it is smothered.
His enemies upon him are fast in gaining,
His muscles are aching and his strength is waning.
The snow keeps coming and grows firmly in place,
White Whisper has stopped running in grace.
Now he leaps and bounds in a scattered way,
He's running for his life once again to his dismay.
Those evil villains keep their horses coming,
Their ropes ready to fall around the victim that's running.
When will the end to this fox chase come?
How long can our hero continue to run?
White Whisper with his flaring nose in the air,
Lifts up a cry that sounds like a prayer.
As if in answer to his cry for help,
The snow gets thicker and the others yelp.
Even the trees get denser in size,
And the enemies soon quite lose their prize.
In triumph White Whisper knickers his thanks
To the God who has shown him unending grace.
Now he lifts his great head and white tail high,
His eyes he lifts up to the sky.
White Whisper our hero still remains free,
Tell me, who could be happier than he?
Tired from his chase he searches for a place,
To rest his legs and recover his grace.
The forest once loud with the whistles of men,
Now falls into peaceful silence again.
Our hero lays his pretty head down,
And the moon shines brightly upon his brow.
He falls asleep to the sound of dropping snow,
He is a majestic being, you know.
For our horse is none other than,
White Whisper, the wild horse of an old Gypsy caravan.