In the museum there is a flint knife named
Mictlantecuhtli who rules the underworld
And one named Tlaloc who tells the rain
It is time to fall and a third whose name
Has been lost; some think it's never had one.
If your soul was unwillingly liberated
By Mictlantecuhtli you might have found
An administrative position among the dead.
Tlaloc-taken souls run errands on Earth
During the winter rains. Souls freed
By the third and sharpest flint knife must wait
For the day it finds its name.
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