Up and down
The Temple Of Thousand Worriers
Lord Itza ambles
To his people
His calm steps
Speak
A well has been found
Over are the years of blind nomading
We shall observe the magic of water
Vernal and gold-scaled
With both eyes on one side
A snake-like head
Gazes into yellow future
Through a persistent glass
Of endless sacrifices
Neckless
He seeks stars in bowls of water
Spends evenings on its back
Knees drawn up
Torso raised on elbows
A plate on his stomach
Harbours four red fruit
Each of different seed
Each shrivelled and starved
His imaginary hand
Carves a message in the air
For the posterity
Never to be born
Even at our bravest
With the face upwards on the table
We of our time
Are not in the position
To accept their mind
Neither for the scorn of gods
Nor all the tea in secluded China