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Stones softly circled,
marked by seasons,
rings on trees and bones,
fossil language—
a time of panpipes,
and reeling lake dreams;
siku sounds rippling
through sun baked canyons.
Shadowed lines, hawks
suddenly winging,
arched in turquoise skies—
in perfect rhythm
with throaty pipes,
quena and charango songs
borne oddly from armadillo shells
strung with twine of llama bellies
and plucked slowly, ushering in
the murmuring dusk.
Did we really love
so much so long ago,
bodies curved and shining
in Andean light, soft skin aglow;
two fish in Quechna’s stream,
fates joined in an Andean way
by seamless rings
on softly circled stones,
water-lapped and marked
by the seasons.
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