He is the follower of the wander-lust.
His heart, mind and soul,
Blown by the four winds,
Blown, like a speck of dust is blown
By the first winds of March.

Like the speck of dust,
He must follow the wind,
And do as it bids,
For his heart belongs,
To the winds of time.

The winds that blow eternally,
From pole to pole,
Never stopping,
Never slowing,
Never forgiving,
Always commanding.

Like the stallion
That stands on the hills,
Enticing man with his beauty.
His mane flowing free in the wind,
Always daring, enticing, but never giving,
For the stallion, as the Wild One,
Must remain forever free.

If not, he will die like the morning glory.
As the first full light of day,
Flows gently across the rest of the land.

To the wild one freedom is,
Love, Hope and a prayer.

The love of life,
The hope of tomorrow,
The prayer of things to come.
To conquer him,
To take his freedom away,
Would be in vain.
For to conquer him,
Is to destroy him.

To chain the wild animal
Would but kill it.
For freedom has become
Part of him.

The wild one is such.
Free and unchained.
Owing no man his allegiance
Owing no woman his love.
Owing, but to the winds of time.