Poetry: Chichen Itza

The Cenote, with gaping mouth
awaits.
Deep down
pitch-black still water
hides myriad memories.

Silent Pyramids
of the sun and the moon
all around.
On the top
the Chaakmool
half inclined.
A sacrificial altar
on its stomach.

Those Mayans
from the top of the temple
ruled their subjects
in the name of
religion and animals.

These are almost forgotten.
A faint trace is left
on the stones.
El Caracol thinks
of those old days,
sighs, shakes its head
frustrated.

Cold, musty and dark
Balancanchen cave
lies nearby, unperturbed.
A tiny creek sleeps
without flow.

On its small pebbled beach
A row of clay lamps, still lit.
As if someone just slipped away
after his evening prayer
went back home.



These lamps
know much about
old days’ mystery.
Sacrificed on the altar
the high priest
reaped the heart
of young women
still throbbing.
Drank the blood.
They knew.

Witnessing this
the lamps shivered
dipped
in the cold of the creek
to quench fire,
to quench anger.

These monuments
of thousands of years
still bow to the sun
without any condition.

The light and shadow
play as usual
in the temple, on the stones.

Everyday in Chichen
the sun still rises
in search of life
in the Cenote
it never reflects.