The Folklore of the High Passes: The Salt-Seeker's Prayer

The pass is a needle, the valley a thread,
Where the living must walk on the bones of the dead.
The dust is our bread and the mist is our wine,
As we follow the lead of the goat and the pine.
A handful of salt for the thirst of the herd,
A prayer for the summit, a sharp, silent word.
The glaciers are grinding their teeth in the night,
While we huddle together for one spark of light.
The iron-topped staff is a rhythm of pain,
A heartbeat that measures the sun and the rain.
We carry the summer in a tattered, blue sack,
With the weight of the ages pressed hard on our back.
The eagles are watching the slow, moving line,
Of the salt-seekers climbing where the jagged peaks shine.
A bargain is struck with the wind and the cold:
A trade of our youth for the stories of old.
May the mountain be merciful, the footing be fast,
Until the high gates of the Zoji are passed.
For the heart is a traveler, weary and salt,
Finding its peace where the high rivers halt.