He makes the Eagles and Ocelots dance with him! - Nezahualcoyotl

He makes the Eagles and Ocelots dance with him!

Come to see the Huexotzinca:

On the dais of the Eagle he shouts out,

Loudly cries the Mexica.

The battlefield is the place: where one toasts the divine liquor in war,

where are stained red the divine eagles,

where the tigers howl,

where all kinds of precious stones rain from ornaments,

where wave headdresses rich with fine plumes,

where princes are smashed to bits.

There is nothing like death in war,

nothing like the flowery death

so precious to Him who gives life:

far off I see it: my heart yearns for it!

And they called it Teotihulcan

because it was the place

where the lords were buried.

Thus they said:

'When we die,

truly we die not,

because we will live, we will rise,

we will continue living, we will awaken

This will make us happy.'

Thus the dead one was directed,

when he died:

'Awaken, already the sky is rosy,

already dawn has come,

already sing the flame-coloured guans,

the fire-coloured swallows,

already the butterflies fly.'

Thus the old ones said

that who has died has become a god,

they said: 'He has been made a god there,

meaning 'He has died.'

Even jade is shattered,

Even gold is crushed,

Even quetzal plume are torn . . .

One does not live forever on this earth:

We endure only for an instant!

Will flowers be carried to the Kingdom of Death:

Is it true that we are going, we are going?

Where are we going, ay, where are we going?

Will we be dead there or will we live yet?

Does one exist again?

Perhaps we will live a second time?

Thy heart knows:

Just once do we live!.

Like a quetzal plume, a fragrant flower,

friendship sparkles:

like heron plumes, it weaves itself into finery.

Our song is a bird calling out like a jingle:

how beautiful you make it sound!

Here, among flowers that enclose us,

among flowery boughs you are singing.

The earth is a grave and nothing escapes it,

nothing is so perfect that it does not descend to its tomb.

Rivers, streams, springs and waters flow,

but never return to their joyful beginnings.

Eagerly they rush onto the vast realms of the rain god.

As they widen their banks,

so they carve their own burial urn.

The bowels of the earth are filled with detritus,

once flesh and bone,

once animate bodies of men who sat thrones,

judged cases, presided in council,

commanded armies, conquered provinces,

possessed treasure, destroyed temples,

exulted in their pride, majesty, fortune, praise and power.

Vanished are these glories,

just as the fearful smoke vanishes that belches forth from

the infernal fires of Popocatepetl.

Nothing remains of them but the words of a poem.

---

Nezahualcoyotl (1402 – 1472) Mexico

Translator not stated

Source: Mindship