I am the blind corequenque

who sees through the lens of a wound,

and who is bound to the Globe

as to a stupendous huaco spinning.

Iam the llama, whose hostile stupidity

is only grasped when sheared by

volutes of a bugle,

volutes of a bugle glittering with disgust

and bronzed with an old yaraví.

Tam the fledgling condor plucked

by a Latin harquebus;

and flush with humanity I float in the Andes

like an everlasting Lazarus of light.

I am Incan grace, gnawing at itself

in golden coricanchas baptized

with phosphates of error and hemlock.

At times the shattered nerves of an extinct puma

rear up in my stones.

A ferment of Sun;

yeast of darkness and the heart!