Waters that come from afar and from long ago. Long time before the ancients came to populate the valley. From the Nevados, the volcanoes that climbed to the sky, catch the snows that the Sun liquefies. Under their own weight they slide down streams, without asking permission, pushing rocks from the weight of ocean liners. In due course, shot from the peaks of the Andes and Buenaventura, they pass through the riverbed, sometimes Colorado, sometimes Black or Salado, always Abaucán, Señor Guerrero del Alto, according to some.
What the stones could not, the sand achieves, in the Dunes of Tatón, submerging the water. But the Warrior does not give up and reappears in the light of Inti and Killa in what still has the ancestral name of Istatacu. Bloodless secular battle or perhaps the convenience of the water that sinks into the sand again, to re-emerge in the Mortars from there to follow its course, now calm, now spirited.
Scorpions have witnessed this pulse for millennia.
The Tree, Algarrobo, drinks from the Warrior while he holds the memory of a loved one who left.
Time that leaves its fleeting mark in the sand. Water, Sand, Wind and Fire from volcanoes that leave a message that the forewarned eyes see and perhaps someone will understand.