The great Spirit created the sky, the waters, land,
mountain, man and woman.
You know, Bill, forbidden fruit didn't ruin
the happy hunting ground;
it was all that road and strange bridge building.
I'm setting here trying hard to catch my breath;
no, don't fret, it ain't old age or sickness,
it's what the West does to easterners.
I come up here to tell you that you had the guts
plus the good sense to choose the proper road to travel.
The one I picked led me to a Purple Heart and
a thousand troubled dreams.
I truly believe the path you chose was the toughest;
nonviolence ain't ever popular or easy,
but I'm willing to bet when you slept,
you had good and peaceful dreams.
Don't scratch your head, Bill,
I met you through your poetry, thank you.
Good night, William Stafford, you can rest easy
knowing you did right thing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem