Who sees omnipotence in the smoking mirror,
forgets the feathered serpent
and the light of the morning star,
or the moon with her skirt of jade
and the gleam of the four hundred southerners
against the atramentous sky.
The left-handed humming bird flutters,
four hundred rabbits career below,
fools expect the flower prince
until our flayed lord arrives
in his coat of human skin
and there is no space,
there is no time,
there is only pacha.