The Quetzal Bird
1
The quetzal bird flies north
over the pool of water lilies
hidden by the watchful oaks
Higher, over the snow-capped volcanoes.
Farther north, from Yucatan to Mexico
To the valley of Mexico, to Lake Texcoco
to Tenochtitlan, city of the Aztecs,
itself a water-lily floating upon the lake.
Tenochtitlan, a bud on the horizon,
it blooms, slowly opening its petals
The quetzal bird strokes the sky
It draws nearer, Tenochtitlan in full blossom.
Tenochtitlan is a red gem set in turquoise
The red city floating on the blue surface of Lake Texcoco
Its temples rise to the sun like reeds
Waving at the sky, slender reeds, steep temples.
There in the palace of Moctezuma
Where the columns wear golden coats
Where stony serpents and ancestor warriors adorn the walls
Where quetzal feathers and turquoise and onyx and jade decorate the halls
There in the palace of Moctezuma
The nobility, in their scarlet robes and golden jewelery,
Get drunk on chocolate liquor,
Are entertained by poets and near-naked dancers
There in the city of Tenochtitlan
Where the women grind their corn,
kernels of the sun, gift of the god Quetzalcoatl,
And they chatter and sing and call to children
There in the city of Tenochtitlan
Men finish their work, the craftsman, the farmer,
And chant, pray, sing to wooden idols
Who stare back, squinting in the lamplight
When sun sets on Tenochtitlan
It is a red city painted by black shadows
Lake Texcoco fires, a blaze beneath the water
Women sing the evening prayer, priests watch the darkening sky.
2
The quetzal bird flies north
North is the black land of death
It is a desert, not of sand and heat,
but of flint, a cold flint steppe.
Dead souls wander there searching for food
But no roots can penetrate flint and slate.
Sometimes the dead sleep, on cold stone with no blanket
The dead thirst but in the North there is no water.
North is the land of the fleshless
The fleshless have no throat, sing no songs
"Only with our songs our sadness dies."
In the North, sadness lives.
North is the land of the fleshless
Reach out for another's warm touch
The hand passes through, passes through
Loveless land, fleshless land, comfortless land, Northern land.
The quetzal bird looks down on the plain
Where a shade beats his chest
and points to dry wounds, no blood flows
and screams with his parched throat noiselessly.
When the sun comes to the North
The coldness of the flint presses skyward
Wrapping the sun in death.
The dead lose hope
The quetzal bird turns its head southward
Southward, where it has left Tenochtitlan
Tenochtitlan, the flower, slowly blackens and wilts
The damp earth absorbs dying Tenochtitlan, once the red flower of Mexico.
3
Nezalhualcoyotl, you saw the city die
You saw the temples crumble
Their graven images cracked, pitted, and destroyed
Gods cast to the gutter dust
Nezahualcoyotl, Tenochtitlan has fallen
The courtly pleasures of the palace
are buried beneath the violent rubble
Moctezuma's palace gutted stark debris
Nezahualcoyotl, where is Tenochtitlan
Its people have two homes now.
Dried blood, cracked bones, rotted flesh remain
Torn souls march to the fleshless North.
Nezahualcoyotl, look at Lake Texcoco.
The ash of Tenochtitlan
has turned the turquoise waters gray.
The reek of the rotting city from the Lake Texcoco mire.
Nezahualcoyotl, you were a poet and a prince.
Sun-imbued soul of the Aztec race,
regal voice sang pure like the quetzal bird's
A strong reed-like flower blossoming full.
A song, a flower
if only they did not fade.
The flint, the cold
now you wander, now a shade.