You face the West, Cihuatlampa, region of the mauve twilight. The Cihuateteo, deified dead women, carry the setting sun in a litter of feathers, then come down to the crossroads and dance in the wind. The scene glows softly red, then goes dark.
You follow the setting sun. What you carry goes down with it.
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A song for this direction
Can niquittoa onon niquilnamiqui ye
antla ye iuhqui a icnopillotl
tle yca cehuiz in noyollo
tle yca polihuiz in notlayolol nihuexotzincatl
mach oc onca ye nota, mach oc onca ye nonan
oc nechonnechixtiez
oc nechonyollocehuiz
I only say, I remember:
nothing equals this misery.
With what will my heart find rest?
With what will my sorrow end, I of Huexotzinco?
Over there my father, over there my mother,
are they still waiting for me?
Will they still give rest to my heart?