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.