C'era un tempo in cui le sacre arti erano utilizzate per propositi superiori, per contenere e tramandare l'antico sapere, con diverse forme e coloriti, inseriti negli usi e costumi dei popoli...non per gareggiare o pavoneggiare, ma per missioni divine/celesti che gli uomini moderni, ormai non sono piu' in grado di sentire, perche' troppo presi dal mondo materiale, del voler apparire indossando le varie maschere per presentare le infinite farse,  dimenticando spesso l'anima....Ma l'Adamo dormiente, forse un giorno si risvegliera'....forse nel quinto sole maya uscira' dalla sua tomba nella quale e' stato sepolto vivo nell'oscurita' e confusione della materia...speriamo ad una nuova rinascita di tutte le arti e degli uomini che ancora possiedono un'anima da poter utilizzare per propositi superiori e non solo per i propri egoismi personali...

Self-sacrifice
"....I shall leave my song-image on Earth. My heart shall live, it will come back..."

Here through art I shall live for ever.
Who will take me, who will go with me?
Here I stand, my friends.
A singer, from my heart I strew my songs,
my fragrant songs before the face of others.
I carve a great stone,
I paint thick wood My song is in them.
It will be spoken of when I have gone.
I shall leave my song-image on earth.
My heart shall live, it will come back,
my memory will live and my fame.
I cry as I speak and discourse with my heart.
Let me see the root of song,
let me implant it here on earth so it may be realized.
My heart shall live, it will come back,
my memory will live and my fame.
The Prince Flower gently breathes his aroma,
our flowers are uniting.
My song is heard and it flourishes.
My implanted word is sprouting,
our flowers stand up in the rain.
The Cocoa flower gently opens his aroma,
the gentle Peyote falls like rain.
My song is heard and flourishes.
My implanted word is sprouting,
our flowers stand up in the rain.
Aztec song, Mexico

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Antichi canti Aztechi
Self-sacrifice

I polish jades
sparkling in the sun.
On the paper I am putting
feather of the green and black bird.
I know the origin of songs:
I only arrange the gold-coloured feathers,
it is a beautiful song!
I, the singer, weave precious jades,
show how the blossom open.
With this I please,
The lord of the Close and Near.

I inhale the perfume,
My soul become drunk
I so long for the place of beauty
the place of flower,
the place of my fulfillment,
that with flowers, my soul is made drunk.

I appear in this flower court,
pictures blossoms: they are my drums
My words are songs
Flowers are the misery I created.

It will be spoken of when I have gone,
I shall leave my song-image on earth
my heart shall live
it will come back,
my memory will live and my fame
my song is heard and flourishes
My implanted word i sprouting
our flowers stand up in the rain
the cocoa flower gently opens his aroma
the gentle peyote falls like rain.

As a yellow maize I am born
The many colored flower of living flash rises up
and opens his glistering seed before the face of our mother.
In the moisture of Tlalocan, the quetzal water plants open their collars.
I am the work of the only God, his creation
Your heart lives in the painted page
you sing the royal fibers of the book
you make the princes dance
there you command by the water's discourse.
He created you,
he uttered you like a flower
he painted you like a song:
a Toltec artist.
The book has come to the end;
your heart is now complete.