Andes rainshadow’s creation.
Host to ghosts, arid location.
A plateau of salt basins, sand
and lava flows. Pinochet’s land.

Ancient mummies, its dry dirt stores.
At Chuqui mine, are copper ores.
Saltpeter boom towns, forgotten
one, a prison camp so rotten.

There, in dead silence, landmines lost
grim chain of souls, sweet freedom’s cost.
Hades of healers, professors
and artists fenced by oppressors.

And while motels, Calama boasts
Atacama touts mostly ghosts.
Its soil, in places, that of Mars:
deserted memory of scars.

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