Machu Picchu

I own this landscape

 
a thousand hooded peaks in purple silhouette
masked, faceless

 
homesick wayfarer in foreign dress
knotted strings pressed into my palms
the mothers do not recognize me
I am the sun god’s bastard

 
echoes of silver soles on stony streets
belong to me

 
pristine no more, a culture raped
the fathers’ tombs ransacked
not to be denied, dead emperors
still draw breath in gauzy air

 
evening the river far below weaves threads
of molten gold

 
tributes paid in obreros’ dirty work
conquest by disease  invaded roads
thousands of miles through history
the way of blood is never wholly lost

 
This is my country