I come
to the patio of flowers
my word a song
my thought a flower.
My drumbeat
is an open book.
I praise
the one
who is adored
in every place,
I beg his pity.
War lords, am I right
to seek him?
I, Moctezuma, am uncertain.
Moctezuma, painter of books,
you come
to the patio of flowers
to sing.
Blue-green bird,
you sway on your perch
before god.
Yellow butterfly,
you alight!
Moctezuma cools us
with fans of flowers
where we lie
on these carpets
woven out of leaves.
