Father Sun, Face of Stone;
What intrinsic mystery lays hidden in the mystical lament
Of the wind’s translucent whisper,
Painted with colors of the winter wheat,
Blooming in the hands and on the lips of your bronze Zamponia players,
Who fill with pentatonic harmonies, the carved dimensions of the wood and canes,
With their fingers of clay, their breath of fire…
What cryptic secret is forged in their blood,
Rushing rivers of molten silver, burning in their veins,
Since the beginning of time when You, Lord of my ancestors,
Sent Manko Kapac, the first Inca, to create The Empire…
What is the mystery of these shattered melodies,
That irredeemable melancholy, immortal cry in the vibration of the canes,
Voice of The Wind, homily of The Inca;
Sometimes throbbing in agony, distant in the loneliness of the Altipampa…
Other times sensuous, euphoric and proud;
Occasionally, languid, tender, irreverent and bless,
Like the sweet romance of first love;
Then again, the multicolor of festival, like the skirts of our women,
Turning and turning in the timeless dance;
Painting and festively dressing with the colors of the rainbow,
The gray frame of the stoic mountains;
Peaceful now, like the waves of the Sacred Lake,
Then, furiously violent like the powerful storm
Transforming the wind, wild like a runaway stallion,
Into a melody as warring and untamed as the Inca race…
Father Sun, Face of Stone, Lord of my ancestors,
What is the mystery carved in Your essence of rock,
Etched in my essence of bronze…
Father Sun, Mother Earth, Brother Wind,
What is the enigma…
What is the secret…
What is the mystery of my race…

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