A Death in Cajamarca, Peru

Atahualpa, enduring in Cajamarca
Greeted by de Soto, his free friend from Spain!
“Be Calm! these times will be tolerate to you.”
By Riquelme, who is wearied with this place?
Unsatisfied with checkmate, looks upon Atahualpa
As simply detestable—blazing, bleak, uninviting,
And longs again to find himself in Spain,
After the embarrassment of defeat,
By the captive slave Atahualpa, Inca King
Who gave advice to Captain Hernando de Soto
And got inevitable checkmate….
And friends and feast—saw more than all, its games—
This life seemed blank and flat. He slacks to rest
In its vast prison all alive with walls, listening
And quivering combatants with Inca robes—the air
Delighted by the roaring fermatas of men—
The sunlit canopy heaving overhead,
Inflamed and stained against its corded veins
And fluttering out its border with piercing testimony—
The wild warriors roaring from the pit bellow—
The wilder crowed soldiers from above
With one long yell that sends the startled blood
With thrill and sudden flush into the knees—
A hundred voices screaming—to the Inca King
Of Spanish horses galloping across the land—
The ring of swords, the sharp clashes of steel—
Live swords that spin in circles with bloody red—
Gall helmets flashing ‘neath their torrent hair—
A conjuring, prophetic God—to them
Worse than the furor—the eyes of Atahualpa
To the Peruvian Indians—doing nothing—
Their muscles strained—and then comes slavery;
“Abet!—that’s God’s will,” says Atahualpa to his people!
“…thaïs, ‘t is their Spain—‘t is not ours and mine.”

And yes, Atahualpa felt the great God was by his side
He stands with face up, as if he sees and believes
The game he so illustrates, and says, “That’s death!”
“Ah! for my Spain!” I speck his very words
As for his group, I know them, every one—
An odd crazy place and full of make up, untamed—
Soto, Rada, Chavez, Atienza, and Riquelme
All seemed to me fine men devoid of revenge—
A little crazed—but who is entirely sane?
They went about with war as they were taught,
And gave away their laughter but not the gold,
And all their talk was of gold and uproar.

If Spaniards thought and said they were gods,
‘T was undisruptive foolishness, not deserving death
Death to the riddled Inca King, Atahualpa

What most aroused Atahualpa brother Hernando?
Was that his brother gave the Spaniards his resources,
And cried that wealthy men would pay his ransom;
And, worst of all, roundly denounced his people,
With all their cries to fight the Spaniards greed—;
Said they were frauds who made stretched prayers;
And were at best, only devil conquistadors;
And this it was that brought Pizarro to his death.

As it was Riquelme who voted to hang Atahualpa
Those who went with him did not believe in him
Were mostly dull, uneducated men
Simple and dazed by what he said,
And misconceiving every word he said.
He led them with him in an enthralled fear,
They followed him like rebels, where he went,
With feelings mixed of wonder, fear and dread.
Stricken with fear until they hung him!...

Thus much was said, by the ruling hand of Pizarro
I hear him fuming in the court below, like Pilot.
Cursing his servants and Spain
The sun is dropping—all the sky’s ablaze—
A half hour hence all will be boring and grey again;
On through the blinding eyes of the many
don Francisco Pizarro, like Titus of Rome
Announces the unjustifiable execution of Atahualpa

As long as Inca’s shall be know to men
Riquelme’s name shall bear the brand of ill repute,
The curse, of generations still unborn!...

#744 6/2005

Dennis Siluk his web site is http://dennissiluk.tripod.com