Cuzco

Valley of myth,
Where an empire died,
Where stories are still alive,
Whispered by the grass
You tread, histories divulged by
The living dead.

Golden, visible rays of Sun
Ignite the day and shine a path
Where priests and freaks and shamans run,
To give meaning to this cosmic laugh.

Exploding in a culture clash,
Here stones can speak and their speech is old,
And alone, under stars that see, on streets so cold,
One converses with ghosts, and secrets are told,
And you keep them or spread them, and sell them for gold,
Or turn them to places where tickets are sold.

Cuzco, ancient navel,
Where I am able to see.
Qo´osco, fountain of harmony,
Sing me your songs
Enrapture me.