If I lived hundreds of years ago
I would beg passersby to exhume
the temple’s lost fountainhead,
where sacred water
once rose from unknown wells.
I would remind them we must nurture
our desiccated gardens
even if it’s too late.
I would curse those
who subtracted pious flagstones
and wish throats
filled with silt
to mourn forgotten waters
below Cuzco’s foundation.
I would apologize
to those who never quenched
thirst. Scold parents
for failing to recall the network
of gold pipes under
Cuzco’s haciendas and crooked streets.
How can our children ever taste
a fresh lick of rain offered
by the Gods?