The Beauty of Iztaccihuatl
and as hoarse winds howl, his cries
become whispers - faded by the laughter of children.
The children race the clouds to the summit,
longing to be swallowed by Earth’s white comfort,
they plan to ride the beastly clouds into battle.
Popocatepetl, once dormant now weeps.
A sticky ash turns his once bright snow tops into tar.
In tribute to his lover, his ice freezes clear
to create mirrors in each of the Earth’s crevices,
displaying his neighboring beauty, Iztaccihuatl.
As the children attempt to rein the soft gray fog,
his summit reveals, to them, her spellbinding beauty.
Once a daughter to an Aztecan chief,
she is now nothing but a silhouette that lays silent,
shaped by a thin shroud of snow.
Ripples in the mountain mimic her once lively
curls, and white trees line the hills of her breasts
and curve through the valley of her navel.
The children watch her through the vapor
of their breath, hoping not to blink in case she moves.
But she will never move - killed by sorrow and grief,
she was deceived by envious suitors
to believe that Popocatepetl was slain in battle,
his honorary blood made war paint.
The truth was, her lover lived - fighting for her hand.
And so he carried his fallen lover, his embrace soft as
the feathers he wore, and as careful as she had ever loved him.
The children make their descent, their worn shoes
nearly sliding across the slick ice, his frozen tears.
They watch silent snakes glide through the yellow grass
as they climb carefully down the back of the warrior.
At the bottom, they watch the volcano slowly vanish behind
the grey velvet clouds that swell with his heartache.
Forever mourning, Popocatepetl often wakes and rumbles
remembering his one love, Iztaccihuatl.
By Natalia Martinez (Fall 2021)
The Beauty of Iztaccihuatl
Buttery clouds collide with the rigid terrain
of a warrior’s scarred back,
and as hoarse winds howl, his cries
become whispers - faded by the laughter of children.
The children race the clouds to the summit,
longing to be swallowed by Earth’s white comfort,
they plan to ride the beastly clouds into battle.
Popocatepetl, once dormant now weeps
a sticky ash that turns its once bright snow tops into tar.
A tribute to his lover, his ice freezes clear
to create mirrors in each of the Earth’s crevices
displaying the neighboring beauty, Iztaccihuatl.
As the children attempt to rein the gray fog,
his summit reveals, to them, her spellbinding beauty.
Once a daughter to an Aztecan chief,
she is now nothing but a silhouette that lays silent,
shaped by a thin sheet of snow.
Ripples in the mountain mimic her once lively
curls, and trees line the hills of her breasts
and curve through the valley of her navel.
The children watch her through the vapor
of their breath, hoping not to blink in case she moves.
But she will never move - death brought upon her
by sorrow and grief, she was told the Popocatepetl
was slain in battle, his honorary blood made war paint.
The truth, her lover lived - fighting for her hand.
And so he carried Iztaccihuatl, his embrace soft
as the feathers he wore, and as careful as she had loved him.
The children make their descent, their worn shoes
nearly sliding across the slick ice, frozen tears.
They watch silent snakes glide through yellow grass
and climb carefully down the back of the warrior.
The thrill has gone, and a ponder has taken place.
They watch the volcano, as his ash settles,
and the clouds grow gray above him.
Forever mourning, he often wakes and rumbles
remembering his one love, Iztaccihuatl.
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