Chac Mool

The cenote is a standing blackness, at the end of a path Reflecting stars amongst entwined greenery Where the female sacrifices once were assembled And pitched in, to talk to the gods for the people To secure favors and assure prosperity. Years later, men came to dig out the gold and trinkets The still fragrant incense, and even the skeletons. Inside the pyramid, a smaller pyramid waits: Shelters jaguar altar of dark burnished blood Stones silent now of their human cries Time gives things rare value Which were once tools of culture And archaic ceremonial rites Are accidentally honored by the intrepid tourist. High on the platform, reclines Chac Mool Knees by his chest, offering plate held steady To accept the cooling hearts Of the preferred victims His impassive face looks patient With fierce hunger, he has been waiting for centuries He knows there will always be more.