In Taos, pueblos are striped with ladders
leading to blue doors like pieces of sky.
Inside, braves wrapped in blankets
burrow close to a fire, shivering
as they dream of nimble ghosts
who scramble high and higher in moonlight.
They picture ladders made of rainbows
reaching across a vault of blue.
They mutter in dream talk to spirits
of the long dead who traverse colors.
Cliff dwellers celebrated ladders
clinging to the side of mountains
where ancient apartments housed
the tribes. Some days cold pale clouds
shrouded the crest in mystery.
One might suppose God himself
placed Jacob’s old ladder there
just to test their bravery.
When ancient ones could not scale rungs
at long last, they stayed on top,
close to heaven, awaiting the last step
no mortal can see until
he takes God’s own hand and leaps
like a young man to his reward in the sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very Nice, I liked this poem