Samaypata is a small Macchu Pichu,
they tell us. And the people is right.
An hour and a half it costs to leave behind
the heat of Santa Cruz de la Sierra.
And settle down. Pass
through the needle eye of its streets.
Without touching the stone.
Without putting your nose on the cold rock.
Know that Samaypata awaits us.
To die. To live
maybe even more this way.
With its gentle architecture under our feet,
that tells us.
With its unfathomable screen of air,
that illustrates us.
Samaypata and the art of dying,
to go dying while we fall
in its deep well.
Same as in Macchu Picchu.
Although Samaypata is personal death,
not community or sidereal. Just individual.
One day we went there
with our india camba
long hair, strong and dark.
One day we went there, in Lima,
when we were kids
and we played around
to one of its dusty huacas.
The goal was death
but we did not know this yet.
And the joy
the same joy as now. Dark joy.
Without putting your hands on the hard rock
nor closed eyes on the cold stone.
We belong to such an old family
like that of the first men of the plain.
Although in the mountains they also find
Make love on my camba
It is like entering a wall.
How to make love to a black rose.
Samaypata is the female
hidden among the foliage.
Legs and hips of a woman.
And doggy tits.
So was that dark girl.
And your cock turns to leather.
For continuing to lie on the stone.
And your teeth stick out and your arms
to better bite and hug her.
And your calves get rubbery
to boost you
and get to know the art of dying in Samaypata.
Without breathing the stone or licking the hard rock
nor lie face down at the bottom of the abyss.
The return from Samaypata
brought me here.
That it is not Samaypata, this is clear.
That it’s not me either.
That he is nobody, perhaps. If not, alone
a certain mirage of lights and tall buildings
on the patient grass.
A delicacy can be
That’s why you write despite
of your impure feeling.
There is no place or time
approach your head
to the abyss of paper.
Samaypata has left
a long trail of stars.
Of agglomerated stars of death.
Half an hour less lasts
the way back to the plain.
To the onslaught of heat
from Santa Cruz de la Sierra.
Storming the Boston cold.
Even if you live for now
inside the plane of your memories.
And the near future fact
be that of your own extinction.
Maybe in Samaypata.
Maybe touching the china itself
of those splendid stars.
With our drop of shadow confused
and happy among so many other shadows.
But you don’t know this yet. And that’s why you write
with your impure loneliness.
Half alone. Accompanied
There is no place or time