And so I came to the foot of the old mountain
to which I somehow belonged, the one I felt
my own hands built for you
at some point in time
above the four winds
of this world.
I am here. You are here. I am in awe.
I do not see struggle or stone,
rather a summit of stars,
a man, a woman
of new.
My hands are ready,
this hand and the other one,
the one that rises to love,
the one that is open
again.
i sense ascension in you.
today our feet no longer weep:
like Neruda, you and I
are climbing the ladder of the earth,
up to the Machu Picchu of love, to the high citadel
of its ancient voice,
so that the sun can hitch itself to the sundial
of our bodies, and speak through our blood,
not in the cries of slaves,
but rather in song, a sea spray
of song after song.
It matters not if we tumble like autumn
to a single death, or get lost
like Inca spades
in the sand -
it is here,
in the cry of condors,
from peak to peak, from air to air,
that archeologists of the future
will find the new wonder
of us.
Silver trophy winner
Honorable mention
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