Ghostlike invaders razed Tenochtitlán
but not the southern cities:
Teotihuacán, Monte Alban, Chichén Itzá,
each fell under the weight
of its own firmament as the Gods,
the Kings, the warriors tumesced on blood
drawn from children, women, men,
leeched the blood-soaked, rain-starved land
beyond all hope of balance.
The Gods re-trenched, Kings downsized,
cities and temples accrued dust.
No longer were warriors’ greatest massacres
celebrated in stone; village life and death
became again the single option.
That sacrificial stone,
interred in the pyramid’s heart,
dried in a sudden thirst that stretched
through centuries of dark, damp air.
In the heat outside, new Kings,
new Gods, new horrors raged.
There were survivors; their day draws near.
The stones they heaved or cut
elicit reverence from strangers.
The endurance of such people:
Mixtec, Zapotec, Locandon, Maya,
globalises into common knowledge.
Their demands for dignity reverberate
in Turin, Tokyo, Cape Town,
gather momentum on the longest continent,
where kings and gods are learning, slowly,
to look, listen, think and share.