The mural on a wall in San Cris displays

Concentric geometric patterns in fours

Encircling a core resonance.

They repeat — forming a triangle,

Emanating from his forehead. 

As though through an opened third eye, 

The resonances tessellate

As he puts on his mask 

To become one with his ch’ulel.

From the sacred mountain caves 

The bats flutter —

Awakening the spirits 

Summoned within his mask, 

Unfurling the wool thread from its spool.

He wraps it around his fingers, 

With needles in both hands

He begins to give form 

To his hummingbird, 

And tethers the creation 

To the fabric of his world.

Its beak forms ripples 

In the living fabric,

In the face of Mother Coatlicue, 

Interleaving with her essence 

Reverberating in the realm of the Tzotzil,

As for millennia in the thirteen heavens.

And taken away for centuries. 

The thread now carries a message

From his people, urging him 

To put down his needle and thread. 

He reaches for his obsidian knife, 

Offers his blood to the four directions

Under the Holy Tree. 

He removes his mask, 

And replaces it with a plain black one.

Then mounts the sacred corn-rocket 

Emerging from another mural 

Rising as he rides

Striking at forms — like Coca-Cola —

With a shining red star 

On a paliacate 

Wrapped around his forehead.