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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Atacama, Eden of winds, flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter, homestead of flamingoes and geysers, and above all , below an azure sky, mountains are carrying on their tops ice of the past. Old villages tell us their stories, Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu, carry in their canons life, water from deep below let flowers and vegetables grow. Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert, a green spot, surrounded by fragments of history with the colour of orange, red and brown, embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope, the history of the Atacama. Still alive in their churches. Fragments of an ancient culture reflecting on the surface of Río Loa. Like ants – far away, dispersed in vibrant light some Vicuñas are looking for tranquility and forage. The geysers of El Tatio send their hot water into the cold and pure air. How pacient the Atacama is with us, slaves of modern times with the desire for paradise with the dual face of history and hope. Salar de Atacama, show me your cracked and wounded face, your wrinkles of solitude. Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes, with towering Lincancabur, and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice, holding its splendour towards the sky with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate. Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you, dormant since ages they narrate the history of the Inca, of their last refuge and their last battle with Pedro de Valdivia, who came with his men to break the bravery of Inca soldiers with thunder and destruction. The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows, drawing delicate faces of life on dry sand and charming stones. The wind from the mountains carries songs, flute music, ancient tunes, stories of salt, gypsum and clay to the Valle de la Luna, to let it remain calm and unchanged with its eyes filled with dust and stones in the eternal canto of earth. Atacama, heart of the North, plant of wind in the song of history, you make the day sound and rock to sleep the nights, lonely between the arms of the mountains and the Altiplano.
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