Concentric circles

Layered into the mountain plateau, 

Cast shadows with linear breaks 

Shifting all day.

Overlooking them, adjacent rings

Encircle the priest’s hut,

Its walls stretching shadows 

As the sun recedes behind the mountains,

Repeating this dance in moonlit hues.

From his hut, he gazes down 

Into this deep — Pachamama’s navel,

A circular creation 

Weaving light with shadow

Day with night.

He summons the black llama,

Blows the conch in a long wail

That the stone terraces shape

Into chambers of dancing resonances

Interweaving with the spirit

Of his people seated in the sacred valley.

Stars scintillate 

Across the tessellating chambers

On this crystalline solstice night

Mirroring the Milky Way above

Where the llama is born

In the dark constellation,

As the sky and earth converge.

With another ceremonial wail, 

It gallops straight

Into the mother’s navel,

As his people sit in awe

Stars sparkling in their eyes

The conch reverberating

Through their being — in rhythm

In this terraced passage

To the skies.