Dedicated to the Hopi tribes, who knew agriculture, and the art of living, when Europe was starving, crawling in medieval darkness.
He stands on the red rocks, alone with ghosts, his sight on the painted horizon.
Slowly they appear in his vision: the millions, slaughtered by disease, hunger, the swords and bullets of the invaders.
He knows: a people in tune with nature, who understood the path of Mother Earth, as no-one since has understood Her.
And, now, he, the scientist, knows the end is near: his own tribe will have to leave the fourth world, and find solace in hell.
Then the braves will rise from their forgotten graves, as trees from the desert.
We drove from Flagstaff, and took Route 89 North, under the volcano, our sights on the snow capped San Francisco range.
Soon, in the direction of the Wupatki ruins, home of the Water clan, we saw the Painted Desert in its splendour, stretching as a thin rainbow on the horizon.
We stopped at the Sunset Crater: there you said the ground was alive, with the spirit of your ancestors.
1064 was the year of the great eruption, and after a millennium, the trees are back, their roots deep in the dark grey lava.
Then I said I loved your home, and your smile took me to heaven.