El Rito de Santa Fe

This valley is not ours, nor these mountains, Nor the names we give them — they belong, They, and this sweep of sun-washed air, Desert and hill and crumbling earth. To those who have lain here long years And felt the soak of the sun Through the red sand and crumbling rock, Till even their bones were part of the sun-steeped valley;

How many years we know not, nor what names They gave to antelope, wolf, or bison. To prairie dog or coyote. To this hill where we stand, Or the moon over your shoulder . . .

Let us build a monument to Time That knows all, sees all, and contains all, To whom these bones in the valley are even as we are: Even Time's monument would crumble Before the face of Time, And be as these white bones Washed clean and bare by the sun . . .