The Sun's eyes pierce the jungle.
Its hands are sensuous, deceitful,
cupping the Yucatan's untamed green.
Bushes unfurl tuberous leaves,
dense webs of fern bake, stretch
drooping languid fingers.
One iguana conquers Chac-Mool,
draped across the stone bowl,
barely moving, drunk with heat.
Its recticular lid ticks.
A whisper is pressed from lips
to ancient limestone, sacrificing
secrets, echoing on ball court walls.
Mystery is a cool cenote, thick,
littered with bones and death,
passing the quiet forever of time.