trampe videre inn i neste morgen

The mountains, those were real persons, head beyond
head, ridge, peak and dome
High dark on the gray sky; and the dark gullies and gorges
and the rock hearts . . . slightly tortured . . .
The raw sore of this road cut in their feet:
The slow anger of the coast mountains: they'll get their
own back
After some time. Things will be better then.
Rock-slides will choke the road, no one will open it.
You dark young mountains are going up in the world, we
the people going down. Why? Because 
nobody knows the difference between right and wrong. 
So the wolves will come back to Europe. Here, poor
people,
Slower we rot. 

Fra diktet Mara i diktsamlingen Be angry at the sun av Robinson Jeffers.