The train that flies in the Andes

Cusco's train to Puno crosses mountains as the knife enters the butter. No roll, floats on peaks so high that man and beasts bare. The convoy is a space for tourists, With your postin wagons, His restaurant at the letter and his living room from which to take a liquor while intuited that there are other people with other lives there. A luxury viewpoint that allows the traveler to be voyeur of the Andean lands and customs. The Andes are a homeland, and its distrustful and reserved people, They dress with their traditional clothes and go sell their blankets and cloths, Your meals and wool, When they hear what the mountain train appears again. And everything makes sense because everything, Tourist whim, is harmoniously beautiful in that vaodevil.