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

our ashes.

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

any bite.

That’s why you write despite

of your impure feeling.

There is no place or time

ideal. Thereforeyou

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



Alturas de Samaypata/ Leila Yatim (Tradução)

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