Here is another bucket list mention, and I really want to get my feet moving so I can get up here and yell…”I finally did it, I beat the odds, I proved anything is possible”. I would love to be sharing the moment with loved ones.
The name Machu Picchu is really just an educated guess because so little is known about this ancient city, possibly created around 1450 in the height of the Inca Empire. This lost city of the Incas, is nestled 7,500 feet above sea level in the Andean mountain range above the Urubamba valley and became one of the new 7 wonders of the world in 2007. No one really knows the true purpose of this city. A self sustaining city based on archelogical evidence, and the architecture, like Egyptian pyramids, involved hauling massive stones over great distances, and they were cut to precision! no mortar was used. Speculation abounds about how the Incas could have made such cut stone to such precise dimensions without the help of modern technology. Some have even suggested that the Inca had extraterrestrial help!
What a magical experience it would be to embark on the path, and to imagine what it would be like to have lived here…every stone would have stories to tell…
A Poem to Machu Picchu by Pablo Neruda
Poem to Machu Picchu – Poem VI
And then up the ladder of the earth I climbed
through the horrible thicket of the lost jungles
to you, Machu Picchu .
Tall city of stones stacked up in steps,
at last a dwelling where what is earthly
was not hidden under slumbering clothes.
In you, like two parallel lines,
the cradle of lightning and humanity
rocking together in a thorny wind.
Mother of stone, spume of the condors.
Highest reef of the human dawn.
Shovel buried in the first sand.
This is the spot, the place where they lived:
here the fat kernels of corn were carried up
and fell again to earth like red hail.
Here the gold wool came off the vicuña
to dress the loves, the burial mounds, the mothers,
the king, the prayers, the warriors.
Here men’s feet took their rest at night
next to the feet of eagles, in the lofty lairs
of the meat-eaters, and at dawn
they trod with thunderous steps over the rarefied fog,
and touched the ground and the rocks
until they knew them in the dark or in death.
I look at their clothes and their hands,
the traces of water in the echoing hollows,
the wall worn smooth by the touch of a face
that looked with my eyes a the earthly lamps,
that oiled with my hands the vanished
timbers: because everything –the clothes, the hides, the vessels,
the words, the wine, the bread-
was gone, fallen into the earth.
And the air came in with orange-blossom fingers
over all the sleepers:
a thousand years of air, months, weeks of air,
of blue wind and iron mountains,
as if soft hurricanes of running feet
were polishing the solitary enclosure of the stone.