Orellana saw
the invincible Amazons
bending their bows
against the wild horde
on the sides of a boundless river.
The rash seeker of fortune
got to the heart
of the mysterious fascinations
of unknown lands.
He reached the shores
of an unknown ocean,
but he did not stop.
The golden legend pushed him
far, far more than ever
as far as the threshold of Manoa,
the Sun’s earthly home.
Orellana saw, dazzled,
gold and sun,
the roads paved with pure gold,
the temples, the mansions
built with pure gold.
Everything was gold
as far as the eye could see.
The son of the Sun,
regal prisoner of the circular cage
consecrated by the virgin victim
buried alive,
advanced solemnly
towards the Guatabita’s shores
to soothe by gold
the infernal gods.
The reed raft,
fragrant of incenses,
loaded with gold
carried the new Zipa,
plastered with gold dust,
over the lake’s divine waves.
The golden load
slid noiseless
into the black abysses.
Go ahead ! Go ahead,
wretched hidalgos,
adventurers without future,
friars betrayers of Christ !
Orellana is there
to point at to you
the gold’s kingdom.
They arrive,
tired out,
at the shores of a desert lake.
The son of the Sun
plastered with gold dust,
the fabulous Manoa
with its dazzling treasures
are vanished, divine witchcraft,
into the fogs of a nothing.
The rapacious hands,
plunged into the lake,
pick up mud,
only mud.