“Easy Rider from the point of view of the two motorcycles”

We are thunder on chrome, two wild-hearted souls,  
Rolling steel mustangs on ribbon-bound roads,  
Born in a workshop, baptized by gas,  
We carry our rebels—Wyatt and Billy—  
Through deserts where cacti stand silent, aghast.

We taste every sunrise in engine’s hot breath,  
Long jackets and freedom, the wind’s whispered test,  
Our pipes sing the anthem of seekers and strays,  
We’ve weathered the dust and the spit of the rain—  
We’re sculpted by journey, not tamed by the days.

We gleam with the stardust of Hollywood lights,  
Stars painted on gas tanks, red, blue and white,  
Yet freedom’s a shadow that rides in the chrome,  
We dream of a country that calls us its own—  
But sometimes the horizon won’t let us roam home.

We felt every thunder of laughter and fear,  
Campfire smoke curling like ghosts in the air,  
Our tires remember the scars in the clay,  
We witnessed their friendship, the silence, the fray—  
And at the last crossroad, alone, we still stay.

We are Easy Rider’s forgotten remains—  
Parked in the mind where lost highways remain,  
Forged for adventure, for hope, and the run—  
We’re the bikes that once soared in the freedom-soaked sun—  
Still dreaming of riders who’d not be outdone.

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