A spiralling ascent Along the world's edge Sweatdrops fall To a below without sunlight Boot dust Llamas labour under supply packs Hoof beat lantern dance Shadows cast on the cliff face Distorted we loom Above the mute fog of humanity Summitous Awash in the final dawn The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife Ancient tapestral landscape Exhales into us Curvously infolding The old Inca holds out his hands The knife cuts horizontally Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop There, he says, Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth And we see dimly through the mistsβ There, he says, Pizarro could not follow us, And we see dimly through the mistsβ The neon lights of Neoqusqo