My friends,
listen to this:
let no one live deluded with a pretension of royalty.
The fury, the clashes,
let them be forgotten,
disappear
in due time from the earth.

Also, to me alone,
a short time ago they said,
those who were at the ball court,
they said, they murmured:
Is it possible to work mercifully?
Is it possible to act prudently?
I know only myself.
Everyone says this,
but no one speaks truly on earth.

The mist spreads,
the conch shells resound
over me and over all the earth.
Flowers rain down, they interweave, whirl about,
they come to bring joy upon the earth.

It is truly, perhaps as in His House,
our Father acts,
perhaps like quetzal plumage in springtime,
with flowers he paints,
here on the earth, the Giver of Life.
In the place where the precious drums play,
where are heard the beautiful flutes,
of the precious God, Lord of the heavens,
necklaces of red feathers
tremble over the earth.

A mist wraps round the song of the shields,
over the earth falls a rain of darts,
they darken the color of all the flowers,
there is noise of thunder in the heavens.
With shields of gold
there they dance.

I only say,
I Cacamatzin,
now alone I remember
Lord Nezahualpilli.
Perhaps they speak there,
he and Nezahualcoyotl,
in the place of the drums?
I remember them now.

Truly who will not have to go there?
If he is jade, if he is gold,
perhaps he will not have to go there?
Am I perchance a shield of turquoise,
will I as a mosaic be embedded once more in existence?
Will I come again to the earth?
Will I be shrouded in fine mantles?
Still on earth, near the place of the drums,
I remember them.