Short Poems

If you are wise, just use your friend
Like a cigar, I say;
Suck him as long as you can draw,
Then throw the wretch away!

Againe.

L OUING-BELOU'D ; your generous desert
Hath from the world, wonue loue, from mee my hart;
Then put your winnings vp into your chest
Where (being prime) myne age puts vp my rest.

Only the tzinitzcan is in power, the tzinitzcan arouses me in my affliction, letting fall its songs like sad flowers.
Wherever it wanders, wherever it lives, one awaits it here with the drum, in affliction, in distress, here in the house of spring.
Who is the royal son? Is not the royal son, the son of God, Jesus Christ, as was written in your writings, as was written in your songs?
Is not the flowery writing within the house of flowers that he shall come there from heaven?

My heart grieved, I, the singer, was afflicted, that these are the only flowers, the only songs which I can procure here on earth; see how they speak of sickness and of death, how all go there to their homes, alas.
Sometimes thou hast toiled and acquired skill, thou takest refuge in thy fame and renown on earth; but see how vain they speak, alas.
As many as live on earth, truly they go to God when they descend to the place where are their homes, alas.

To thee, the Cause of All, to thee I cried out in sadness, my sighs rose up before thy face; I am afflicted here on earth, I suffer, I am wretched, never has joy been my lot, never good fortune; my labor has been of no avail, certainly nothing here lessens one's suffering; truly only to be with thee, near thee; may it be thy will that my soul shall rise to thee, may I pour out my tears to thee, before thee, O thou Giver of Life.

What have you done, O you our friends, you Chiapanecs and Otomis, why have you grieved, that you were drunken with the wine which you took, that you were drunken? Come hither and sing; do not lie stretched out; arise, O friends, let us go to our houses here in this land of spring; come forth from your drunkenness, see in what a difficult place you must take it.

I, the singer, have entered many flower gardens, places of pleasaunce, favored spots, where the dew spread out its glittering surface, where sang various lovely birds, where the coyol birds let fall their song, and spreading far around, their voices rejoiced the Cause of All, He who is God, ohuaya! ohuaya!

I am wondering where I may gather some pretty, sweet flowers. Whom shall I ask? Suppose that I ask the brilliant humming-bird, the emerald trembler; suppose that I ask the yellow butterfly; they will tell me, they know, where bloom the pretty, sweet flowers, whether I may gather them here in the laurel woods where dwell the tzinitzcan birds, or whether I may gather them in the flowery forests where the tlauquechol lives. There they may be plucked sparkling with dew, there they come forth in perfection.

Wattle blossoms, bright as gold,
Perfume wafting, fold on fold;
Gilding with their yellow sheen
Granite hills and gullies green,
Warm and sweet as Love, I ween.

The cards you tear in value rise;
So do the wounded by your eyes.
Who to celestial things aspire,
Are by that passion raised the higher.