In the Ruins of Chichen Itza

 

Neil Harding McAlister

 

  

In the Mayas’ holy city                                          

Tourists gawk at silent stones,

While a guide who’s bright and witty

Lectures in irreverent tones.

 

Shout! and hear the fading echoes

Ricochet off barren walls,

Now the home of sunning geckos

Living in these empty halls.

 

Children scale the sacred pyramid,

Scrambling up in playful glee,

Just as ancient kings and priests did

With profound solemnity.

 

Down those stairs the lives of victims

Drained in streams of pain and blood,

Driven by religion’s dictums,

Flowing in a crimson flood.

 

Carvings in this place of sadness

Tell of cruel depravity,

Founded in horrific madness,

Meted out with savagery.

 

Who could think that skulls of neighbors,    

Caught for obscene sacrifice,

Could induce the gods’ good favors

In a holy edifice?

 

Who could throw a trembling maiden

Down into a well to die,

With gold jewelry heavy laden,

Grace from wrathful gods to buy?

 

Priests and scholars, kings and warriors

In these precincts so accursed,

Far from being mankind’s saviors,

Made men bow to what is worst.

 

Serving wicked superstition

Labored skilful engineers.

Their work came to what fruition?

Nothing more than death and tears.

 

Break off from the tour guide’s chatter.

Contemplate this vista bleak.

Undistracted by his patter,                                       

You can hear the mute stones speak,

 

Whispering an age-old story:                      

Evil works must all decay.

Every tyrant’s pride and glory

Shall in ruins rot away.

 

Jungle vines shall twine together

Over towers and ramparts tall.

Blasted by the rain and weather,

Monuments erode and fall.

 

Who shall then fear priest or master

When the temple’s overthrown,

Leaving only mocking laughter

Echoing on crumbling stone? 

 

 

 

 

© 2004

Chichen Itza, Mexico

 

           

 

Email contact:   neilmac “at” durham.net