by José Maria Heredin, 1803-1839
translated by Daniel Charles Thomas, December 2001.
How very beautiful is the land where they lived,
Those courageous Aztecs! With astonishment
They saw all the climates from the pole to
Equator concentrated within a narrow
Zone in their heartland. Their flatlands
Were equally spread with golden cornfields
And sweet sugarcane. The orange tree and
The pineapple and the swaying banana,
Sons of equinoctial soil, mixed with the
Luxuriant grapevine, the wild pine,
And the majestic tree of Minerva.Without winter, eternal snow
Crowned the heads of purest Iztacihuatl,
Orizaba, and Popocatepetl,
Never touching with destroyer's hand
The more fertile fields where the Indian
Looks to those far-off peaks in soft purple
And tinted gold, reflecting the brilliance
Of the western sun, which serene
On eternal ice and perennial green
Poured out its golden light in torrents
Which saw Nature excited by
This sweet heat to boil into life.It was evening; the light breeze was
Already folding its wings in silence,
To sleep between the grass and the trees,
While the broad disk of the sun went sinking
Behind Iztacihuatl. The eternal snow,
Dissolved as if in a sea of gold, seemed
To tremble on one side of it; an immense
Rainbow, ending on the zenith of heaven,
Received the richest colors from the
Sun's last rays, clothed in light and
Sparkling glory like a splendid
Portico to the sky. Its brilliance
Faded away; the white moon
And solitary star of Venus
Were seen in the deserted sky.
Happy twilight! Most beautiful hour
Whether of soul's night or brilliant day,
How sweet is your peace on my soul!I found myself seated on the famous
Pyramid of Cholula. My eyes were
Invited to divert themselves across
The immense plain that lay spread out before me.
Such silence! Such peace! Oh! Who could tell
That in these beautiful fields barbarous
Oppression rose up to rule, and that this
Land has brought forth such rich cornfields
Paid for with the blood of men, in which
It was innundated by superstition and war...?Meanwhile, night fell around me. The last blue
Went from the sphere, turning darker and
Darker; the moving shadow of
Peaceful clouds, flying
Through space on the wings of the breeze,
Was visible on the spreading plain.
Iztacihuatl most pure returned
A placid glow from the silver rays
Of the moon, and in the east,
Thousands and thousands of stars sparkled
Like points of gold.... Oh! I salute you,
Fountains of light, which illuminate
The veil of shadowy night, and make
Poetry from the firmament!While the moon was descending, and
Sinking toward its brilliant setting, the
Shadow of Popocatepetl
Was slowly reaching out like some
Colossal phantom. The dark arch
Came to me, covered me, and its vastness
Grew larger and larger, until finally it
Covered the land in universal shadow.I turned my eyes back to that uplifted
Volcano which, veiled in transparent
Vapor, was drawing its black contour
Onto the occidental sky.
Giant of Anahuac ! How can the flight
Of rapid ages not imprint some
Mark upon your snowy face?
Time runs so quickly, carrying off
Years and centuries, like the fierce north wind
Which knocks down a crowd of ocean waves
Before its breath. You have seen kings
And people boiling(seething) at your feet, who fought
Against time just as we fight, and called
Their cities eternal, and believed
They could wear out the earth with their glory.
They passed away: no memory remains of them.
And will you live forever? Perhaps one day
You shall fall unhinged from your deepest
Roots; your great ruin will crush
The wasted Anahuac; proud new
Generations shall be raised up there, who
Shall deny you ever were.
All things seem
By universal law. This most beautiful
And brilliant world where we live is
Only the pale, deformed corpse
Of another world which was...
Absorbed in such contemplation,
Languor surprised me. A long dream
Descended upon me, of glories
Engulfed and lost in the deep
Night of time. The rude splendor
Of Aztec kings unfolded before
My astonished eyes. Amidst the
Silent crowd of feathered lords
I saw the savage despot
Uplifted on his rich throne of
Gold, pearls, and embroidered feathers;
To the sound of warlike conchshells
The vast procession went slowly walking
Toward the temple, where horrible priests
Awaited them with faces and
Vestments splattered in human blood.
With profound stupor the slave people
Sank their lowered faces into the dust,
Not even daring to look at their lord
From whose flashing eyes the fury of
Power broke forth.
Such were your
Monarchs then, Anahuac, and their pride; their
Vile superstition and tyranny have
Been sunk in the abyss of nothingness.
Indeed, death, that universal lady,
Wounding equally the despot and the slave,
Writes equality over the grave.
With her charitable cloak of oblivion
She hides your madness and fury
From the present race and the future.
This immense structure witnessed the
Most inhumane superstition
Enthroned upon it. It heard the cries
Of agonizing victims, as the
Priest, without pity or fear,
Ripped out their bleeding hearts;
It watched the thick steam of blood
Rising warm toward offended heaven,
To spread a mournful veil across the sun,
And it heard the awful howls
By which the priests suffocated
The cry of pain.Mute and empty you
See yourself now, pyramid. It is better
That weeks of centuries may be laid waste,
And that superstition which you served
Now sleeps at the bottom of hell!
However, for our last grandchildren, the
Healthy lesson itself; and for man today,
Who blind in his futile knowledge and vain
Unto heaven, like a titan, proudly thunders,
This shameful example itself of
Delusion and human fury.
December 1820 Ed. 1832 Trans. 2002
Poems -- / / -- Tijuana Gringo