In the balance of the Popol Wuj

The mighty shake

Opened San José’s domes

Revealing round skylights, 

Where peacock ocelli 

Form translucent gateways.

Saints transfigure

Into ancestors

Returning to these spaces —

On pine needles 

Carpeting the ground

Women draped in huipiles kneel,

Bordados con rosas, 

Trajes in deep red, purple, green —

Infants wrapped at waist in rebozo.

Light candles in circles

Offer marigold, roses and lilies,

Swirling prayers in copal smoke 

Rising to the eyes from their centers.

A splash of aguardiente 

Wakes up the stars of fire, 

Elders sip, spray a mist,

Summoning the spirits.

Flute-spirit voices like quetzales

Carry their dreams,

Weaving with incense

Through the gateways

Soot-scarring remnant walls —

Their spirits

Reclaim this space.

Agua tempers Fuego’s breath — 

Mellow incense voices

Fill the valley

From the ocelli.