“pachamama and the sundance”

Beneath Andean skies, where condors wheel and glide,  
Pachamama, Earth Mother, breathes her ancient pride.  
Her hands in the mountain, her heart in the stone,  
She whispers to rivers, “Remember your home.”

Upon velvet mesas, in circles of sand,  
The dancers assemble, all genders, all clans.  
Bare feet on the soil—each step is a prayer,  
Invoking the wisdom alive in the air.

Sun’s golden fingers ignite morning’s hue,  
Beams kindle the spirit, awaken the new.  
The Sundance begins as the drumbeat replies,  
With shadows and sunlight beneath sacred skies.

They pierce through the silence, through hunger and pain,  
Their bodies, a language, returning again—  
To the womb of the Mother, to promise anew,  
That all life is offered, to balance, to renew.

Pachamama attends as they dance in the ring,  
She tastes every teardrop, she hears when they sing.  
The eagle’s sharp cry, the low flute’s lament,  
Are prayers for healing the Earth’s sacrament.

So gather, you guardians, children of clay,  
Remember who holds you—by night or by day.  
In the Sundance, a promise: as long as we stand,  
Pachamama will cradle the heart of the land.

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