This is not the flatlands - here the climate is different. There are avalanches one after the other, And here are rockslides one after the other. And one can turn back, go around the crevasse, But we choose a difficult path, Dangerous, like an army route. Whoever wasnít here, who didnít risk it - Whoever didnít test himself, Even if he pulled a star down from the sky. Down below you donít encounter, you donít get From your entire, happy life A tenth as many beauties and marvels. There are no scarlet roses and funeral ribbons, And itís not at all like a monument That rock that gave you rest. Like an eternal flame that sparkles by day The summitís emerald ice, Which you just couldnít conquer. And let them talk, yes let them talk! But no, no one dies in vain, Itís better than dying from vodka or from a cold. Others will come, trading comfort For risk and immeasureable labor, For you theyíll finish the untravelled march route. Perpendicular walls, well donít shout! You canít rely on luck here. In the mountains neither rock, nor ice, nor cliff are reliable. We trust only in our fortress of arms, In the arms of a friend and a pounded-in piton, And we pray that our insurance hasnít run out. We chop out stairs. Not a step back! And our knees shake from tension, And our hearts on the summit are ready to leap from our chests. The whole world is in our hands - you are happy And only just a bit do you envy those, The others to whom the summit is still up ahead.
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?