The Way of the Hunted Sun

 


The mounts of Llanganates lie resplendent,
verdantly dressed in ancient mists. Years steeped
in whispers lead to this, the myths of the Incas,
cryptic legends of treasure.


A seeker stands flushed by an ocular feast; waterfall sprays
over the rope bridge, the luscious gorge beneath.
His fingers trace Derrotero de Valverde —
the old paper maps the past.


Atahualpa the lost, the last emperor knelt, convert
son to a Spanish gun’s conquest. In rope’s mercy,
offered salvation, he was strangled. A royal ransom’s
interred, deep cavernous gilt.


Where are the riches, thousands pieces of sun
spun in gold? Where are the statues draped, dripped
in glowing jewels, breathing in silver? He steps forward,
his foot on woven cable.


The bridge sways in light’s aubade.
This is the way of the son, the hunted sun.
A seeker on a quest, steps exulted.





Entered in "RANDOM POEMS [2] De POWER [Opium] THREE" comp, aka Case's crazy comp, as jakehammer put it...[/font]