BREAST HILL
The family cemetery is now one day away on foot.
We have all gathered at the base of the Epitsü hill.
We carry our light belongings:
coffee and corn
laughter and sobs . . .
prepare their forces.
The presence of man — the Jaguar remains among the women —
The younger brothers play the music:
some play the horn
others the seed whistle.
We pass silently by a nest of Ko`oi wasps,
we rest on the bank of a dry stream,
where children invent a bath in its sand
and play at the rabbit jump.
We resume our walking covered
by the burnt red of the sun.
Patsuuatushi, the great uncle, listens to the oldest of the owls
and shows us the refuge where we will live the night.
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