Yes, nestling in your arms,
soaring peaks and troughs –
like a lover’s embrace without end,
you smell of tears

while your sons play
beneath shadowed ponchos
in the piazzas of Santa Fe,
London, and Montreal

charango, rondador, antara,
riffing flutes and strings,
panpipes blow, spiraling
up, up, up above the snow,
to plummet to the
bleeding earth below.

Now, your hips are swaying,
arms snaking, twisting
along steep tracks,
ankles turning, churning furrows

heart pouring fresh, cold streams,
cutting pain, like jagged ice,
as your smile melts
into cool, clear joy.

Your dance demands
snapping fingers, pounding feet,
new-found pulses,
old as your terraced wrinkles,
tarnished temples,
sun- burnished brow.

Come, come hear the condors
singing, floating on thermals
sweeping and swooping,
above long hidden peoples.

Come out from behind
your crevices and cracks,
life is calling –
life is calling –

her head gliding
among snowcapped clouds,
her torn feet beating
the ground, beating the ground.

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