Today, Friday of inventories,
exalted by mournings.

—Painful gin of questions—

Incallacta and the Sertones.
Popol Vuh and the Araucana.

—Oh!, Borges of the doubts:

I found in the snows of the exile
the race of your voice
its subsequent laud
to the buccaneer.

Barefoot grey rock,
the caves of Calvin!

Insatiable welfare
which abjures nostalgias.

(Subtle labirynths
of staff and pride).

The Apls which ignored
the vibration of a gallop,
are not the winds that feed
a simple Martín Fierro.

—Oh! Master of the patience.

Supreme priest
of the ritual of searching.

Today I place my tribute
at the footstools of the pyramids
and I invent a noble tree
for a peregrine.

The supreme path
of some American
who doesn't bring roots
to the sacred Machu Picchu,
—who knows, among the odd things—
He could transfigure
in an altar without gods!

© Edmundo Torrejón Jurado

Edmundo Torrejón Jurado writes from Bolivia, and took part with this poem of the first Heptagrama poetry contest.

Arts and expression + Poetry