A vision of moonlight, a whisper of breeze,
A coat like spun silver, that flows to its knees.
The Afghan, a sighthound, with eyes sharp and deep,
Holds secrets of mountains where spirits still sleep.
From canyons of stone, their lineage began,
With nomads they hunted, swift, loyal, and grand.
A coursing pursuit, a chase in the dawn,
Gazelles in their sights, their freedom withdrawn.
But more than just hunters, with grace they are blessed,
A spirit untamed, in a form softly dressed.
Their gait, a slow dance, their gaze ever keen,
An air of nobility, a presence serene.
Their laughter, a wind chime, their bark, a low song,
A touch of the wild, where they truly belong.
Yet hearts full of love, for those they hold dear,
A bond unbreakable, through laughter and tear.
So cherish this vision, this spirit unbound,
The Afghan, a legend, on sacred ground.
In silken embrace, with eyes that ignite,
They remind us of freedom, bathed in moonlight.