Cuidad Perdida
As the river thunders behind us, fireflies wink at us from the opposite riverbank, like magical fairy lights guiding us towards dreams of no return.
A small bonfire heats the air in front, its small flames licking at the night sky, welcoming the advance of millions of stars.
The guide speaks of an ancient history, his fluid Spanish the only human sound in this mighty jungle.
I feel the cold river stones beneath my feet, the heath of the fire upon my face, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of a waterfall, that could just as well be the drums of an indigenous civilization from a thousand years ago.
Have you ever traveled to Colombia? I was there last winter, on a hike towards the Lost City. Arriving in our camp at night, our Spanish guide told us about the indigenous people that used to live there. I wrote this poem about this exact moment, which felt so magical I just had to write something about it.