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This poem is taken from PN Review 133, Volume 26 Number 5, May - June 2000.

From the Ridge Roger Garfitt

1 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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