Imperishable blue this bitter sky

that Chaak abandons, brighter day by day

until maize withers. Soon the rain-priests say

someone—or all of us—must go to die.

Beside our great cenote where the earth

has sunk to darkness like a clubbed-in skull,

they kindle leaves & clay with rare copal

to heal a god who summons clouds to birth.

Amid their sacred smoke, a treasure gleams:

cool hue of water, life . . . & sacrifice

now struggling in their grip, this season's price

fresh-painted to placate Chaak with his screams.

Above us in the silence yet to come,

deep thunder speaks—then lightning-axes fall

among the stubborn clouds. How beautiful

the storm upon our faces, & how numb

our hearts to one necessity has claimed.

So history will claim our temple walls,

our ball courts, altars, glyphs beyond recall,

our gods forgotten & our kings unnamed.

Yet centuries ahead, when men seek clues

to solve our lives, one certainty remains:

among these bones we bartered for the rains,

fate gazes back imperishable blue.