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They have electric guitars, intertwining their cries with the sighs of age-old drums and panpipes. They echo down the mountains and through the clouds beneath, but never reach the ears of their fallen half-brothers. In Macchu Raichu, distinguishment between Incan peasant and nobility has been forgotten, for their tears have merged in one stream. Their souls are contained not within their flesh, but in the heavy whisper of melodies strung together when the great sea was yet a virgin.

They are Inca, who made the Andes their road and staircase; conquerors of the clouds. And they have lived unknown, five hundred years beyond the fall of their ancestors, hidden from all but the Sun in his course. Once the children of the earth and wind, they have since heard the roaring groans of labor in the mountaintops: It beckoned them to climb higher, and at last they beheld the birth of lightning from its vaporous womb. Learning to suckle it in its infancy, electricity now flows above their hewn rock paths as the pure water has always poured through them.

A young boy named Rozcollo sees the heavens as no man of white or black skin has seen. Wrapped in an alpaca fur dyed deep red, with his hand outstretched toward the starry band before him, he sees the bristles left behind from the great painter's brush.