I.
Beware, my sons, of towns founded by gold-miners,
now abandoned in the saddle of a valley.
Before long, parting ways with your muleteers,
you´ll stumble on routes
no caravan has used for decades.
Stone monkeys point north to the foothills.
Below spread pastures flecked with ash, outposts
snuffed out by crossed signals, crooked guides.
Those who reach this town have taken
the wrong direction, been taken for a ride.
And come here without risking their necks
on the slopes, without seeing that other country
of high passes which do not clear,
where the mist hovers, a wry hawk.
Who talks of that other country