The Poem

T’uruwan Quillqaq

Clay Writer

author: Irma Alvarez Ccoscco 

Listen to the poem read by Irma in Runasimi. https://drive.google.com/drive/u/2/recent

Listen to the poem read by Tatjana Kolpus in English

https://drive.google.com/file/d/173SLZb4hlebD03cQZL63bexVLHN47dy3/view?usp=sharing

Qillqakunataqa, manas ñawinchayta nitaq qillqaytapas yachaniku, laqhallapis
tantiyaspas tantiyaspa purini.

Kikin limp’upi kaq tiyani; ichaqa kay
limp’upiqa ch’askakunapas hatun quyllurkunapas aswantan musquykunata k’ancharayawanku.

Imapaqtaq papilkunapiri ñawiriyman aswansuna mama kukaman tapurikuspa
ñanniyta qhawarini.
Turumanta waytakunamanta pallaykunalla away, qillqay makiymantaqa.

Lliw llimphikunata qhituni
k’illiman tukuchinaypaq,
qunchata laq’ani, qulla papakunata waykuni yarqayniykita saksachinaypaq.

Turuta ichhuwan saruni
takyaq tikaman tukuchinaypaq,
pirqakunata hatarichini
llampu wasaykita, chiri wayra ama
suq’ayananpaq

Sunquykita hatun llaki atipaptin, mishkiwan hampi qurawan q’uchñichiyki. Palqamayuman wañuy wañuy
chayamuptiykitaq
hampi qurakunawan qhaquriyki,
wañuymanta aysariyki.

Hinantin q’umir k’ancharayaq pampakunapiraq chutarayakuni, hinantin kawsaq mallkikunamantaraq, marq’ayukuni. k’illiwanraq turuwanraq allpawanraq qillqakuni.
Kawsayniyqa kunan pacha phuturiqmi,
wiñaypaq pacha yachaqlla
ima ruru kasqaytaqa yachan,
paywan ñawirini paywan qillqani.

The Clay/Mud  Writer

They say I am illiterate
That I get lost in the darkness/laqha



I live in the purest form of darkness/ limp’u
But, it is in this darkness /limp’u 
that the stars and the moon illuminate my dreams.

Tell me, why would I read papers,
When better yet, I can ask my mother,
The Coca leaves, and be shown the blueprint for my life.
My hands create only Pallaes, and words written in clay and flowers.

I knead the colors to make clay,
To build the stove and
Cook the tender potatoes that will satiate your hunger.

I tread on mud using straw,
Converting it to firm brick
And I build brick walls to give you shelter from the cold air
And scourging wind mauling your back.

When your heart has been overtaken by a great ache
I'll smudge you with sugar and an herbal remedy.
When you're laying on your deathbed, on Palqamayu the river plain,
I'll cover you in medicinal herbs to pull you out of death's grip and back into this life.

Still stretching, I inhale the immense splendor of verdure into my body.
Still embracing the living trees.
Still I write words with clay, with mud, with soil.


My existence is the present blooming.
The wise eternity knows which seed I am.
It is in this eternity I read and I write.

T’uruwan Quillqaq



Qillqakunataqa, manas ñawinchayta nitaq qillqaytapas yachaniku, laqhallapis
tantiyaspas tantiyaspa purini.