It appeared out of a dream
like the clay embryo of the sun
drawn over crystal waters.
It coalesces with rain
rippling the shimmering surface
of a day’s meditation
and if the indigo of ancient lakes
ever empties into darkness,
the people along the edges are there to gather,
in the places myths are still told
and out of the spoken word behold
a sky that is slowly born again.
There is an origin
to where the museum ends
and real life begins.
What is left of a dwindling offering?
Where wet hillsides and rivers twist
in stone sunrise and verdant mist,
through reverberating valleys
of earth and abode,
coils of smoke expelled
from exposed terre cotta,
rooftops that appear broken
from under the weight of the sky.
It appeared out of the corner of the eye,
these stairways that lead to the sun.
Figures moving out of the shade
on aching limbs that had just begun
to acclimate to the reverance
forming along the paths of an ancient host.
There were holes in the cliffs of empty graves,
ghosts passing through the outposts of whisper,
beyond the Incan windows of wind,
witnessing the wails
still captive upon the terraced emptiness
that conquers the walls
of perfectly geometric bricks.
Soon twilight is carved by the Urubamba.
Sacred valleys remain where they settled,
receiving a glimpse in the shadow of the tours,
the subtle imprint of ancestors.
It appeared spread before
these temples to the sun.
What has been lost?
What has been won?
These patterns of taking
destined to be repeated
long after the forms subside.
Spirits still pass through the openings
long after the conquerors divide.
Sacred pouches still sprinkle the rain
from a halo of cloud
obscuring with its shroud
all the messages from the unknown,
scrawled in cryptic symbols across the stone,
this venerable home of perfect symmetry.
Pass through the arches, look to the gods,
we are where we are meant to be.