All the flowers of Xochimilco cover the Pyramid of the Sun, a bright yellow mountain in an ocean of red. Nobles kneel at the foot of the Flute Player, a captive of the Flower Wars cloaked in Oceloxochitl's spotted blossoms.
Pierced with a maguey spike, blood drips from a priest's tongue into fire. Copalli, blood of the Ayacuáhuitl sizzles in the bright coals. Crystals of sacred resin send their sweet smoke across polished volcanic glass.
The Jaguar roars behind the thunder.
Lord of the Smoking Mirror, the Night, the Wind – find me in darkest obsidian. Lain on a mat of jade and yellow feathers, to be scattered on the shore of the doves.
Carried by canoe to the far temple. Stripped of the eagle down headdress, the bracelets of turquoise and the golden bells. Flower-belled flutes shatter on every temple stair.
At the summit, nothing but the Wind and the silent priests. The glass blade passes without pain. A precious red flower is plucked at its ripest. A hummingbird flies for the House of the Sun.
