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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 bit

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'

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

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.

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