On March 29th, we commence our solemn march toward “the navel of the world,” Cuzco, with Hungarian soundscaper Anna Huszák.

Horto, in the cradle city, far from might, leaning into an affresco-laden heritage. Scents of vetiver flood the courtyard, tigers strolling by an off-grid shower, carriages of pumpkin at midnight, bluegrass in ancient maiolicas, an ambient circle of kin.

At sea is a sailor with much to lose, troubled waters are runways for kingfishers, on land, rabhcán, feathers and coos, at dawn fade the swishers. Fathers and daughters, sons and mothers, lively sea otters and all of the others. This is the close, near and far, through tides we rose, to Mullaghmore.

Mackerel is a coastal affair. Entangled nets leave no room for jazzy fish, and steel skies reflect the mood of a century at sea. Tides come and go with the Moon as electric shockwaves deepen the curls. A thousand miles down, in a trench, an underwater percussion sets the tone for an orchestral ride.

In this solemn nothingness, an orchestra starts playing, stone chapels, red berries and a quiet world praying. It is freedom we seek, a village of clay; the war is over, so we choose to stay. Goddesses to pilgrims, the scenery has changed, same eyes, same gaze, same faith, mbascìe.

Grey before grey has a name, a heron in the shallows forgetting it has wings, the bay rearranging its morning form. A cold window and an hour that belongs to no one. Salt-stained air, a low note held, the slate is still dark from last night's rain.

Fieu es levant e ponent in la malinconia d’üna cultura extinta. El es silenzi orchestràl, bes-cha cotschnas sün flommas avertas, boccas romanticas e tabac in la mastichaziun a ritmus da folk lunsch. El es terra fritga perquai cha’l es ars, ün dansà a la maniera da Klee a las rivas da quai chi d’eira

A pueblo plays rayuela by the wooden bridge. Coyotes laugh from nearby settlements, scaring off the Pasiegos people and emptying their lands. Moonlit deserts strike our eyes; shadows shorten until they are no more. Cortés, Cortés, chanting blue on tangerine, but the boats have left for the West...