Deep within the dense green folds of the Colombian Amazon, in the region known as the Serranía de la Lindosa, cliffs rise like ancient books, their pages etched not with words, but with images—thousands upon thousands of images. This region, long hidden by forest and conflict, has recently emerged as one of the most important archaeological sites in South America. It holds a visual archive of human presence stretching back at least 12,500 years, possibly longer. Among the most enigmatic and haunting of these images are the flower-like or wheel-shaped figures—red ochre motifs that resemble radiant bursts or circular clusters with spoked extensions.

Seen up close, they stir the imagination. Are they flowers? Celestial maps? Fungi? Sacred emblems of a long-lost ritual? Their near-perfect symmetry and distinctive rounded ends set them apart from the animal and human figures that populate much of the surrounding artwork. Unlike the more literal depictions—monkeys, fish, hunters—these circular forms lean toward abstraction. They invite not just observation, but interpretation.

Discovered only recently due to the relative inaccessibility of the region—previously a stronghold of armed conflict—this art has been called the “Sistine Chapel of the Amazon.” Stretching for nearly 13 kilometers, the painted cliffs are home to over 75,000 individual motifs. They were likely created over thousands of years by different cultural groups, their meanings layered like the jungle canopy itself. But among the herds of prehistoric animals, the human dancers, and the ladders to the heavens, these radiant circular symbols feel like meditative anchors.

Archaeologists believe these motifs were made using ochre—iron-rich earth ground into pigment and applied with fingers, brushes, or even blown through hollow reeds. The art exists in layers, some faded, others vivid, suggesting ritual repainting across generations. And while the Amazon’s humidity is hostile to most artifacts, the dry overhangs and mineral-rich rock have preserved these paintings in remarkable condition.

But what do they mean?

Some researchers interpret the circular motifs as representations of fruiting plants, perhaps an Amazonian flower or pod that held cultural or spiritual importance. Others suggest they may depict spores, hinting at a possible shamanic connection, as psychoactive plants and fungi have long played roles in Amazonian spiritual traditions. The idea that they might represent astronomical objects—stars or solar radiance—is also compelling, especially given the symbolic importance of the sun and celestial cycles in many early cultures.

Yet another theory proposes that these shapes were ritual symbols, marking seasonal changes or rites of pᴀssage. The number of spokes, the symmetry, the repeтιтion—all could suggest a codified language of meaning now lost to time. In this view, the paintings were not simply decoration but acted as mnemonic devices—tools for storytelling, teaching, or initiating new members into tribal knowledge.

What strikes the modern viewer is not only the technical elegance of the symbols but their universality. Across continents and millennia, humans have been drawn to radial patterns: from the petroglyphs of North America to the mandalas of India, from sun wheels in Europe to sand art among Australian Aboriginals. These motifs may tap into something deeply neurological, a cognitive preference for symmetry and centeredness that reflects our relationship with the cosmos and with life itself.

But perhaps the greatest significance of these motifs lies in their endurance. Painted in a time before writing, before cities, before metal or the wheel, they have outlasted entire civilizations. Their makers are long gone, their languages unspoken for ages, and yet these symbols persist. They speak to us—not in vocabulary, but in form and feeling. They tell us that even at the dawn of settled humanity, people were reaching for beauty, for rhythm, for a way to place themselves in a world vast and mysterious.

Imagine the scene: a group gathered under the overhang, preparing pigments from crushed stones. Perhaps it is dawn, the mist still rising from the canopy below. A hand presses against the stone, then draws the first arc. The group chants or hums. Each spoke is added in ceremony. Maybe it represents the flowering of a certain plant. Maybe it is the likeness of a spirit seen in a dream. Or perhaps it is both—symbol and story fused in a sacred act.

We often reduce the past to artifacts and timelines, but art like this defies such containment. It is not just evidence—it is experience. Standing before these images, you do not just learn something; you feel something. The echo of breath in a cave. The hush before creation. The thrill of the first mark that said, “We are here.”

The discovery of these motifs has broader implications. As the Amazon faces increasing ecological and political threats, this rock art becomes a fragile bridge to the people who once lived in harmony with the land. It reminds us that long before modern nations claimed borders, there were cultures here who understood the forest not as resource, but as relation. They painted the walls not to dominate, but to dialogue—with the earth, with the spirits, with each other.

Preserving this site is not just a matter of cultural heritage—it is a matter of idenтιтy. It tells Colombians, and all of us, that the Amazon is not a wilderness to be tamed but a cradle of deep human memory. And in that memory lie keys—not only to the past, but perhaps to the future. How we once lived in balance. How we once mapped meaning not with screens and wires, but with pigment and stone.

In a world rushing forward, sometimes the oldest things are the most necessary. A circle with spokes. A flower. A burst of light. Whatever you call it, it holds space. It holds time. And it holds us, if we are willing to see.

So when you look at these ancient marks—simple yet profound—ask not just what they mean. Ask what they remember. And whether, through them, we too might remember something we thought we’d forgotten.