When that wind roars out of the South,
the one called the 'Zephyr',
it tears right through El Paso
with raw heat and anger;
blasting like buckshot
in saloon bar brawls,
it stampedes droves of tumbleweed
herding it like cattle;
Zephyrs sweep away everything,
except memories and their re-telling
that clatter, that chatter across
strung out continental wires,
informing city readers a day
or two later of some gunfight
someplace far away, so far removed
that the recounting of it
enobles the mythical participants;
three cadavers, wescutts buttoned
silver coins placed over their eyes,
lined-up one, two, three
for that new tripod camera,
the faces of Pat Garrett and William H.Bonney
are absent from that white & black portrait,
they got paid their double gold eagles
and rode off.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem