Sunday Stanza

Trujillo: City of Eternal Spring

Where desert hush meets ocean’s breath,
Trujillo rises, defying death—
A city shaped by wind and time,
By ancient hands and truths sublime.

Adobe walls of Chimú remain,
Etched with whispers of sun and rain.
Fingerprints pressed in earthen clay,
Still warm with stories of yesterday.

Chan Chan stretches, vast and wide,
A kingdom carved by the ocean’s tide.
Corridors echo with footsteps gone,
Yet carry the pulse of a people on.

The huacas stand in solemn tune—
Temples of sun, temples of moon.
Moche hands once shaped the sky,
With ritual, rhythm, and asking why.

The coastal plain—both stark and kind,
A paradox etched in earth and mind.
Where sugarcane bends in emerald rows,
And desert wind forever blows.

The Moche River threads its way,
A lifeline born of distant spray.
Through valleys carved by hope and hand,
It breathes out life across the land.

Beyond it all, the Pacific Ocean calls,
Endless blue that rises and falls.
Once bearing sails of conquest near,
Now whispers calm to those who hear.

Surfers trace what ships once knew,
Seabirds stitch the sky in view.
Salt and sunlight kiss the shore,
Where past and present meet once more.

In plazas bright with colors bold,
Balconies gleam in wood and gold.
Each lattice carved, each shadow cast,
A quiet dialogue with the past.

The Trujillo Cathedral stands in patient grace,
A sentinel of time and place.
Its weathered stones, both worn and wise,
Have watched the centuries drift like skies.

At the Plaza de Armas the city finds its frame,
Four roads converge, like spokes to a flame—
Pizarro, Independencia, Orbegoso, Almagro aligned,
Each bearing the weight of a people and time.
They gather as one at the heart of it all,
Where footsteps have answered history’s call.

Yet spring eternal crowns this land,
With gentle breeze and tempered sand.
No harsh extremes, no bitter claim—
Just steady warmth, a constant flame.

And somewhere here, beneath this sky,
A younger soul once questioned why—
Why hearts are drawn to heal and mend,
Why broken lives we strive to tend.

Among these streets, these winds, this light,
A path was set, though out of sight.
Not in thunder, nor grand decree—
But quiet clarity… becoming me.

Trujillo lives—both old and true,
In ancient clay and morning dew.
A place that gives, then gently brings
The courage found in humble things.

And though I’ve wandered far from her eternal spring,
Trujillo, Peru’s gentle echo still remains in everything.

DocBott