Standing in a valley near Santa Fe, the speaker feels a deep sense of borrowed ground. The mountains, desert, and sun-drenched air don’t belong to the people who now name them. They belong to those who lived and died here long ago — people whose bones have soaked up the sun and become part of the red sand and crumbling rock. There’s a quiet humility in this recognition. The speaker wonders about the names those earlier inhabitants gave to the animals, the hills, the moon — all now lost. The answer isn’t to claim anything permanent. Instead, there’s a fleeting thought of building a monument to Time, but even that would crumble, just like the white bones washed clean by the sun. The mood is reflective and still, a gentle acceptance of our own impermanence in a landscape that holds countless forgotten lives.
El Rito de Santa Fe — Summary
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 . . .