Dawn breaks over the Andean mountains
and the marketplace awakens to its daily life.
Bright red, blue, green designs adorn coarse homespun clothes
displayed on wooden benches in artistic disarray.
Sitting on sun-warmed stone steps
an Indian woman lazily spins her wool.
From a tiny coal stove standing on the curb
rises a delicious smell of frying fish.
Voices, shouts, laughter, music resound
a cacophony of orchestrated noise.
As people go by, an old Indian watches silently
seated in the recesses of his tiny stall.
Hidden in a dirty adobe corner
a sad little boy plays his hand-carved flute.
Dark braids, rosy cheeks, young Indian girls
send shy gazes to parading soldiers.
Dressed in black, two old ladies embrace each other
as they stop by the door of the old church.
Throbbing with life, the marketplace
gathers vendors customers spectators.