He marches in Tenochtitlan’s parade,
Villagers shower him with frangipani,
Pink blossoms cling to his long hair,
Their fragrance fondles his nostrils.
When he reaches the pyramid,
The crowd chants and claps.
He climbs the fifty-two steps,
Each strewn with orange marigolds.
On the altar, a maiden awaits,
Her eyes glassy, her lips blistered.
She reminds him of his daughter,
But he offers prayers to the sun.
He lifts his blade above his head,
Its gleaming black obsidian ready.
The knife plunges straight down,
The scent of frangipani rises.
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