I am the blind caracara
that watches through the lens of an ulcer,
and that is tied to the Globe,
like to a stupendous spinning huaco.

I am the llama, which only attains
hostile silliness to shear
spirals of a bugle brilliant with disgust
and tanned by an old yaravi.

I am the pigeon of the condor that has had its feathers removed
by a Latin arquebus;
and bursting with humanity I float in the Andes,
like a perennial Lazarus of light.

I am the Incan grace that gnaws on itself
in golden qurikanchas baptized
by erring matches and by hemlock.
Sometimes the broken nerves of an extinct
puma give a jump in my stones.

A ferment of sun;
yeast of shadow and heart!