Bucephalus Broods

When Porus scorned the Great and fated fell into the phalanx of Hydaspes?
Hero horns blaring elephant trumpets. Ha India, those fat ugly jewels were tarnished and  ungainly...yellowed tusks of uncertainty blunted...tattooed hides of monsters bristled with barbs and Bucephalus snorted derision
But my master spared you with dignity. And I bowed alongside in the sunshine of his graciousness before I fell at the foothills and died in your stead  
Am I then steeled beneath mountain saddle thusly decided but buried by Greek antiquity?
For I am the mighty battle steed!
Bucephalus! Bucephalus!  Βουκεφάλας!
And even Pegasus was winged by my famousness
But ox head I was called...a charger impugned haunch-stamped but
bred from Thessalonian stable myth-strain magic, mountain
azure wild eye competes with a bright brown jewel set both,
paired within my black battle ground.
My ebony heaven where a single white star presides in ascension.
Untamed I was until the young keeper of my shadow
showed me where it never was nor would it be found
and I left it and my rage behind me under the old straw of my youthful colt shelter
Oh Alexander! I did bear thee always true and proud and brought a king to bloodshed and glory
Distressed forlorn; my anger is now yours as your ambition
drives, canters, galloping charges...confronting all ever forward...behooved to none!
Macedonia had shriveled and other kingdoms called to your youthful arms as I steadfastly pranced and closed inexorably each single distance to your personal victory. Excelling all others we challenged together our place in war and our home in legend confirmed
But I confess oh king warrior, I felt fear.
The whooshing blades and axes smashing, arrows buzzing...always attendant screams of mere beast and mortal man. It was never these things.
An old horse is a full contradiction of grace, poetry and motion but not cowardice.
And I feared not of death but fragile helplessness...of the hordes savaged, of the miles eaten, of the wars raged, of the oats dreamed of and stream drink-missed, of  spurs that bit and the creak of bled leather, of smelling madness, of the running river blood, of lust and longing and life? These dreads I did not entertain
Our love so cherished and upon your heel, the stern drum beat and your radiant command; I hastened to end your conflict and win my city Bucephala.
I fear we'll not ride as one on her fine square or taste the air together of her breath.
And each hill and dale I shall be riderless. Enjoying the freedom from your small burden but always wishing for my precious cargo to talk to me, to chide me and cuff me and ride me through yet another strange combat day. 
But still I wait pondering dear golden one...and my fear waits also;
but not my shadow-kept fury