RESÍGARO

Oh, innocent Resígaro! Who am I? I am perhaps the shadow of Caral who’s come to embrace you. Or maybe the cold soul of Arana who’s come to ask for your forgiveness from the Putumayo. I know my hands are made of dust and my belly’s dry as the bones of my ancestors. I know there was a chronicler who told us lies about us. I know creoles, priests, viceroys and presidents urinated over what we were. I know a so-called Republic consumed us to the point of oblivion. But here I am now pierced by all my generations conquered and conquering; enslaved, servile and free; heroic and wise; anchored to land, sea and fire along with all their bloodlines. I am here to remember the invisible homeland of childhood. I am here to finally come to know who we are. What is left of us amid all the fog of Lima? Not knowing who you are or were, nor what you’ve done. Wandering around lost like a body that knows only to arise and learns nothing else. The echoes of ruin have been my awakening. Be it my destiny to sow the discolored pieces of our flag. Giving them shape and matter. Vanishing not.