When wounds are healed by love,The scars are beautiful.

Who could truly set His shield to rest?His throne? His mighty spear?Think on that. Remember it well, O princes.Who could lay waste to Tenochtitlan?Who dares assail the foundation of heaven?

This fifth and final sun will die,Like every sun before—But for a moment we laughed in its light,Like wind-blown petalsSparkling near an exile’s campfireBefore the flames take them.

In the place of the bells, where battle is waged,The reeds all lie broken in Chalco today.Dust yellows the air, our houses are smoking,The sobbing is rising—from the lips of your Chalcans!