Song of Warriors

Lords,
Eagles and Jaguars, into each other's arms
While the shield sound, they come together
To the gathering
There will be captives, y yao ay yaha

They are scattered, they fall on us,
The flowers of war which are used
To please the giver of life, the Sun.

Where it is boiling, where everything is upturned,
In the place of war,
Where there is glory and fame to have,
Place where the rattles sound,
Where a cloud of dust opens up; ohuaya ohuaya

The flowered war need never end; it stays
By the river: there
The Jaguars as flowers,
The flowers of shields, have opened their petals,
There, in the place where rattles sound.
Ohuaya ohuaya

There is the sweet garden of Jaguars: they will fall
In the midst of the plain.
They will pour their fragrance upon us,
On us who wish glory and fame and honors. Ohuaya

The ungrateful flowers, those flowers of hearts
Have sprung up on the battlefields, at the edge of the fight
Where the Lords find honor and glory. Ohuaya

The shield of Eagles mesh with the standard of Jaguars.
Shields with green Quetzal feathers are given out.
The helmets, with gold-colored plumes, moving like a snake,
Shaking there in the boil, and the Chalca and Amaquemecan Warriors
Leap into battle, they who came, together, in great confusion. Ohuaya

With a sharp noise
The arrow broke,
Its obsidian point splinters,
Upon us,
The dust spreads,
Is boiling. Ohuaya ohuaya

Rattles shake the plain

Rattles shake the plain
Where Tlacahuetantzin was left behind:
With yellow flowers
He is going to sweeten the realm of death.

You are only hiding in the north,
In Seven Caves,
Where acacia grows, where the Jaguar howls,
Where the Eagle roars, where everything is made.

You are the Quechol, flame colored,
Where you fly over the plain,
Through the realm of death.

Homage to Tlacahuepan

With shields, you paint nobility.
With arrows, you write battle.
Now, you dress yourself in plumes
And paint your face with chalk for the sacrifice.
Oh Tlacahuepan,
You are going to take them with you into the realm
Of mystery.

Oh Tlacahuepan, you are over the rulers.
You cry out, the Eagle who is red answers you.
Like a dancer, who is to die,
With whistling hands,
And at the end, to the realm of mystery.

Your song is like a mottled Jaguar.
Your flower is like the spread wings of an Eagle.
Oh my prince, as a dancer, who is to die,
There is the clash of shields.
How beautifully you play your drum.

Your garland the nobles with flowers of the Eagle,
The gathering of friends, oh dancer, who is to die,
The wine of precious flowers makes men drunk and brave
And he will dress himself with his flowers and songs
In the realm of mystery.

Perhaps the Mexicans are signing there too.