High on the spine of the Andes’ breath,
Where clouds and stone defy all death,
The citadel sleeps in the cradle of mist,
By sun’s first kiss and condor’s twist.
Stone upon stone, in sacred array,
The temples and terraces greet the day,
Laid not by haste, but a patient hand—
The genius of a vanished land.
Walls that whisper the Quechua tongue,
Where ancient songs were once softly sung,
Chambers aligned with the solstice light,
Guarding the stars through velvet night.
The Temple of the Sun, still warm with grace,
Gazes out from its hallowed place.
Beneath, the Royal Tomb hides deep and still,
A silence the mountains never will fill.
The Intihuatana, carved with care,
Holds time itself within the air—
A hitching post for the sun to rest,
In stone, the cosmos manifest.
Green steps ripple like serpent’s scale,
Where llamas roam and echoes sail,
Past fountains clear, and crop fields steep,
Where terraces cradle the earth’s deep sleep.
Machu Picchu—city of breath and bone,
Of sky-carved dreams in weathered stone.
Long may your mystery rise and fall,
As wind and time attend your call.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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