SORCERER 1
Fell prince, what can we say? Shall we
Wring fingers, gazing nervously
Into our black, obsidian mirror?
SORCERER 2
Or, in our water jugs, to peer,
Unbinding and retying twine,
In hope epiphanies shall shine?
SORCERER 3
Or shall we three, like puzzling mages,
Cast bright corn-kernels βcross the pages
Of scripture, wincing to descry
Some omen there?
SORCERER 1 Or shall we lie?
SORCERER 2
Were not your lethal gaze forbidden,
Our eyes from yours no longer hidden,
SORCERER 3
These mirrors unfilmed to windows-
SORCERER 1 Wink
We not, you might their contents drink.
They look at Motecuhzoma.
TLACAELEL
Bold, brass, and bungling open-sesames,
Whose saucy tongues shall spice my hangmanβs stew,
You dare let sink your cataracted gaze
Upon the solar luminance of our king?
Who meets these eyes, beholds the face of death.
MOTECUHZOMA
Shackles shall seal their eyes. Clap them away.
My hopes were stillborn by these blind-manβs bluffs.
SORCERER 1
A grand charade shall come to pass,
As marching mysteries amass,
And urgently these lurkings gather.
SORCERER 2
If that is what your lord had rather
Hear from us, so be it, then.
SORCERER 3
Weβll break our seal and thus unpen
Two breeds of vision we may show:
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com