Classic Poem

The Toltecs have been taken, alas, the book of their souls has come to an end, alas, everything of the Toltecs has reached its conclusion, no longer do I care to live here.
Who will take me? Who will go with me? I am ready to be taken, alas. All that was fresh, the perfume, my flowers, my songs, have gone along with them.
Great is my affliction, weighty is my burden; I write out a new song concerning it, that some time I may speak it there where I shall go, a song to be known when I shall leave the earth, that my soul shall live after I have gone from here, that my fame shall live fresh in memory.
I cried aloud, I looked about, I reflected how I might see the root of song, that I might plant it here on the earth, and that then it should make my soul to live. The sweet exhalations of the lovely flowers rose up uniting with our flowers; one hears them growing as my song buds forth, filled with my words our flowers stand upright in the waters.
But the flowers depart, their sweetness is divided and exhales, the fragrant poyomatl rains down its leaves where I the poet walk in sadness; one hears them growing, etc.