The Hidden City

High in the mountains, above the trees,

Machu Picchu sways in the breeze.

Covered in clouds, silent and still,

Tucked in the arms of the Andes hill.

Stone steps rise where llamas roam,

Each carved block once called home.

Laid by hand, with care and pride,

Stacked without mortar, side by side.

The Inca built it, strong and wise,

With stars as guides and ancient ties.

Terraces curve along the steep,

Where corn once grew in rows so neat.

The Temple of the Sun still stands,

Shaped by time, not careless hands.

It faces where the sun will climb,

Marking solstice, season, time.

The city may have been a place

For rest, for worship, or for grace.

Historians guess, but none can say

Exactly why it fades away.

It slept for years in mountain mist,

Untouched, unknown, it still exists.

Until one day in 1911,

It rose again beneath the heavens.

Bingham found it, overgrown,

Its beauty is wrapped in grass and stone.

Now travelers hike the Inca Trail,

To see the past that will not pale.

Tourists whisper, pause, and stare,

At walls that echo lives once there.

You feel the stillness, breathe the air,

And wonder who once called it fair.

Not just a ruin, not just a name,

But something deeper, like a flame.

A memory made of stone and sky,

That asks us all to wonder why.

Why did they leave? What did they know?

How did they build so long ago?

No machines, yet towers grew,

With skill so sharp, and hands so true.

So when you stand at Machu’s height,

And clouds drift slow and soft in light,

You’re standing in a sacred place,

An ancient echo, full of grace.

The Hidden City, calm and grand,

Still watches over all the land.

It teaches us with silent pride:

Some stories never really die.

Machu Picchu