You can hear the iron men
with spur & muzzle, hooves
clopping harder as they gallop
against gravel, heat like the snort 
of an underground animal. 

In the vein between the eyebrows
you can hear the pellet piercing 
the jaguar pelt of a warrior. 

What drove women to descend 
into rivers, their long strands
of black hair along the bank,
what caused leaves to sink 
to the bottom, central ridge break 
into threads, minerals fossilized, 
what parched the rows of corn, 
the trunk of the moon shattered. 

They say he stood on a headland
blowing on a seashell, disc 
of the sun raging, a sound 
that thickened the air, bruised it 
to darkness, the entire contour 
of Cuzcatlán a smoking volcano.  

Now they leave only a statue. 
On the national coins, their faded profiles 
tarnished helmets, their forked beards
the color of grime.