Aztecs

Their ancestors, warriors
They’re warriors.
Stained with infamy.
Some worship them,
others fear them.

Splendid coloured costumes,
haunt their enemies.
They’re remembered on the battlefield.
Often recalled in history for their vindictive actions.
The king would wear a magnificently coloured headress into battle.

The knights of the eagle,
and of the jaguar.
These warriors are fierce and not to be toyed with.

When they came,
the pale faces.
They searched for gold and treasure alike.
But when Cortes,
layed his eyes upon it.
That wonderous city.
He thought it must be heaven.

The conquisadors
called them heathens.
So with their fire sticks,
caped in blood they slaughtered these warriors.
They degraded them with satire.

They will rip out your heart,
and offer it to the gods.
But there was one god.
He was the god of the sun and war.

Huitzilopochtli, the most feared and
adored of the gods.
He would arise at dawn and fight at dusk.
He craved human blood.

And when Cortes dared walk the
hollow streets of that city again, he felt
as if he was being watched by ghosts.

I am

I see through the horizon at World’s End.
I speak with the humming of the wind.
I breathe through the rhythmic waves of the seven seas.
I hear at the hands of all creatures on land and beneath the oceans.
I bleed the luminescent stars of the night sky.

I am the angels that perch on cathedral walls.
I am the faith that lingers in the heavy depths of your soul.
I am a guide for lost spirits.
I am the wings that karma swiftly flies on.

I am the light of the garish sun that enlivens the skies.
I am the omniscient darkness, that resides in the far corners of your heart.
I am the tree’s roots, burried deep to the Earth’s core.
I am the steady roar of your heart.

My heart is a river of tears. Tears belonging to those who grieve.
My body, the majestic mountains and vast shallow valleys.
My womb, the tree, where all life began.

Man and Wolf

The air they breathe is the same that you breathe.

You both worship the overhanging moon.

Your hearts beat as one, in unicen.

The forests whisper of their return,
but you whisper of their demise.

When they arrive,
some will greet them with thunderous bullets.
Others with song and celebration.

Some will welcome him home. Some will banish him from existence.

The blood of ancestors and kings of old,
flow hot in their veins.

Their voice calls you,
it fills the empty night.

These forgotten heroes,
who once stood alongside man,
are now exiled and killed.

They live in our dreams,
they wander our thoughts.

They make appearances in our stories as great warriors,
but are now discarded.

Their howl echoes through the mountains.
It shatters the earth and your delusion of conquest.

They create the music of the night.
They allow your fantasies to unwind.
It heightens each sensation.

Will we ever be forgiven for what we have done to them?

No not ever.