From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu

Rise up to be born with me, brother. Give me your hand from the deep Zone seeded by your sorrow. You won't return from under the rocks. You won't return from your subterranean time. Your hardened voice won't return. Your gouged-out eyes won't return. Look at me from the depth of the earth, laborer, weaver, silent shepherd: tamer of wild llamas like spirit images: construction worker on a daring scaffold: waterer of the tears of the Andes: jeweler with broken fingers: farmer trembling as you sow: potter, poured out into your clay: bring to the cup of this new life your old buried sorrows. Show me your blood and your furrow, Tell me, "Here I was punished, Because the jewel didn't shine or the earth Didn't yield grain or stones on time." Show me the stone you fell over And the wood on which they crucified you, Make a spark from the old flints for me, For the old lamps to show the whips still stuck After centuries in the old wounds And the axes shining with blood. I come to speak for your dead mouth. Across the earth come together all The silent worn-out lips And from the depth speak to me all this long night Like I was pinned down there with you. Tell me all, chain by chain, Link by link and step by step, Sharpen the knives which you hid, Put them in my breast and in my hand, Like a river of yellow lighting Like a river of buried jaguars And let me weep, hours, days, years, For blind ages, cycles of stars. Give me silence, water, hope. Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes. Stick bodies to me like magnets. Draw near to my veins and my mouth. Speak through my words and my blood.