In the meadows where the wild winds roam,
As a painted horse I trot about my home.
Painted horses in colours that are diverse,
shades of skin an array, a spectrum horse.
I was born with a culture underneath- unseen,
An Indian horse, yet a white-washed thing.
Born into colors, not of my choice,
Yet judged by a world with a critical voice.
To look at me, one might not know,
The heritage within does not show.
Born in hues unseen, my outside, so white,
Judged by others, shamed into a silent plight.
A horse of cultures, like a pinto I race,
Yet my coat, my skin, light, call me pale face.
Yet, the whispers persist, “Be less white,”
A call to erase, to diminish the light.
But freedom is not when identity is denied,
In the shadows of judgment, the true self hides.
Mixed cultures blend complexity-wide,
Horses with African roots or Latino pride.
“Be less of what you are,” they command,
As if identity were something to withstand.
yellow, black, each unique hue,
Why must we be less? Is it a fair view?
To teach us shame for how we were born,
Is to silence voices, that should adorn.
A cultural identity that is rich and diverse,
each painted pony is vital, a poetic horse.
Let us rise above the judgment’s sting,
Embrace the beauty that our differences bring.
For in the complexity of life’s equine art,
Each painted horse is crucial, playing its part.
WoPoLi 
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