Acuarela Andina

Through Andean trails, battered by frost
The Indian drives his llama to the plains.

He’s crossed salt flats, ravines, and sandy stretches
Pukara, villages, collas made of reeds and canes.
You can already hear it across the plains
Drums, boxes, and flutes
The wind carries the songs, the tarkas cry their sorrows.

I’m off, I’m off and heading out
We’ll be back next year.