This poem is taken from PN Review 133, Volume 26 Number 5, May - June 2000.
From the Ridge1 Hoofprints
after a song by Atahualpa Yupanqui
Snow at the head of the valley.
A woman chooses her time.
And do I trudge sadly away?
No, I saddle up a line
from an old ballad, I go
With a good horse under me...
Hoofprints, hoofprints, little hoofprints
of my pride. All that's left of me.
I gave her all I am.
Cold such as this never kills
and neither will sorrow.
Don't lose your nerve
in the wastes below zero.
Learn how to travel
alone without love.
...
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