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My horse is black like a night without moon or stars.
He was foaled in immense solitudes;
He is a drinker of the wind, a son of a drinker of the wind,
His dam was also of a noble breed.
Our warrior horsemen have named him Sabok
The very lightning cannot overtake him;
May God save him from the Evil eye.
His ears rival those of the gazelle;
His eyes are the eyes of an alluring woman;
His forehead is like that of the bull;
His nostrils are like the lion's den;
His neck, shouldersand rump are long;
He is wide in the back, legs, and flanks;
He has the tail of the snake, the hocks of the ostrich;
His vigorous heels are far from the ground.
I count on him as I count on my heart.
No one has ever ridden his equal.
His flesh is firmer than that of the zebra,
He has the collected canter of the fox,
The long and easy gallop of the wolf,
And in one day he makes the journey of five.
When he swims he bites the girth with his elbows and 
One might call him an arrow launched by destiny,
Or even the startled dove that flies
Towards the water held in a hollow in the rock.
Yes.  Sabok is a war horse!
He likes to pursue wild animals
And sighs only for glory and booty.
The boices of our virgins inflame his ardor
When I launch him into the midst of danger;
His neighs call the vultures and 
Make my enemies tremble.
On his back, Death cannot touch me
She fears the sound of his hoofs.
Aatika has said to me:  'Come and be without a companion!'
Docile now as the saber which is drawn from the scabbard,
Sabok responds to my spurs and divines my thought.
He cleaves space like the falcon returning to its nest,
And when I come to her whose eyes are languid;
Alone, in the midst of danger, patient and immobile,
He champs his bit until my return.
By the Head of the Prophet!
That horse is the resource of the caravans,
The ornament of a tent, and the honor of my tribe.
I am an Arab; I know how to command and fight;
My name protects the weak and afflicted, 
My heards and flocks are the reserve of the poor,
And the stranger in my house is well received.
The Almighty has crowned me with blessings;
But time turns back on itslef and goes backwards,
And should I have to ,m one day,
Drink of the two cups of life,
I shall show that adversity canot humiliate my soul.
My virtue shall be resignation;
My fortune a disdain for riches;
my happiness the hope in the next life.
And should misery come to oppress my neck
Not for that shall I praise God the less."

*Sabok = the Swift, the Overtaker
*Aatika = the Noble One

         -- African poem