Tzintsunsan

the Aztec village of Tzintsunsan sits on the edge of a lake

where time slows to a golden hum

and the colorful vibrations of hummingbirds

are flying songs that glow of men fishing for food 

in wooden boats made from pine trees 
in the mountains nearby,

and of beautiful babies born of brown Indian mothers,

swaddled in straw, asleep on small beds made from reeds

dried in Mexican sun, grown in dark mud underneath

this living water, amidst echoes of greedy Spaniards,

foreign marauders paddling murderously across 

their once placid lives, yet these violent wrongs 

could never drown out all on this lake 
who glide calmly and strongly in deep silence 

forever across such shimmering blue waters.