A pilgrim on this sacred road,
I know its litany of switchbacks by rote,
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison,
Left in third gear, right in second,
I slowly ascend this winding,
Newly paved eulogy,
From introit of sandstone columns,
Past hundred-foot towers
With red lights that blink
A silent doxology.
I follow behind a processional
Of neon spandex cyclists,
And I gaze at yellow parachutes
That drift angelically above me and below.
I come here seeking solace
In the memory of a single life well-lived,
And in what little truth I know,
Behind the circus befitting this ringmaster.
There are license plates from many lands,
A huge bus bearing Japanese tourists,
And a host of curio shop supplicants.
But I find my quietude apart from them,
Beside a grave marked by stacked quartz—
A point of clarity where none will linger,
On a peaceful pinnacle overlooking
The hazy, pale gray, widening plain.
The steam from the brewery below
Issues its benediction;
And there, standing in the brittle hillside grass,
The ghost of a watersmooth-silver stallion
Nods to me with quiet grace,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Vividly composed and beautifully crafted, Witt. best care, goldy ~