She who speaks out to you is Malinche, whom Hernán called Doña Marina...

    When my father the cacique of Oluta died,

    I being eight years,

    my mother sold me to Tabascan slave traders

    to secure the inheritance for my half brother.

    Yet this was the deed that was my destiny...

    which from my birth kept me on the path I was to follow.


    When one is eighteen,

    one should never be sad in an ancient world...

    of great [ceiba] trees... lake like rivers and gay parrots.

    But when old and young, rich and poor,

    forget the Feathered Serpent...

    and find no way back into the earth they were made of...

    What is one to do....

Broken spears lie in the roads;

we have torn our hair in our grief.

The houses are roofless now,

and their walls are red with blood.

(Elegy for Tenochtitlan)