Best Historywater Poems
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.
It has been built beyond the last frontier
on salty marshland and on tidal streams
on visionary plans, on hopes and dreams
Here comes to rest the restless pioneer
The waves and wind inhabitants don’t fear
because the levee like a fortress seems
Although the water may rise to extremes
the stronghold by the bay will persevere
The city has the water in its veins
It flows for fish and man, past work and rest
In the Lagoon ends every waterway
And when it is the season for the rains
this landlocked sea is at is very best
and leads redundant water to the bay
I will always bring water to your lips
And the let the little fawn over your bramble skips
For memory cannot close its doors
On the lanterned woman laddling from your shores
Welcome for: the tired, the paltry poor,
Blown in the blustering winds rhizome and spore
"The huddled masses yearning to breathe
Free" of tyranny, and the vulgar claws of callous greed
"The wretched refuse of your teeming shore."
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed now to soar
Where the lamp is lift 'side the golden door."
The dragon spewed its water out
But like a great, strong, mother, you opened your mouth
And swallowed the flood, and the child
That watches now Babel's kingdom crumbling, riled
With pity, will not let you thirst
But will while toiling for bread again build you first
An altar of its flesh for iniquities
Commissioned by anitquated theories, antipathies
Sulked in the bosom of your guests
Be careful though, do not spurn their faithfulness!