The mountain is there to be climbed
The weather its own
Maybe violent maybe calm
Funny like Cagney
“Ma, Top of the World! ”
We are its guests
The soon to be honoured dead should it decide
To object to our trespass
To growl and bite back
Conquerors in oxygen masks and with frost-bitten toes;
Are mere Yankee doodles in gangster shoes and clothes
Funny like Cagney
Heroes die as easily as unclean rats
Svengalis, deities, autocrats
The mountain does not forgive
It just is
White heat
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem