Xel-Ha, Mexico

(—A Pilgrimage Interrupted)

I. The Ones Who Remember

(Xel-Ha, Mexico – Reverence)

In the mystical lands of Mexico,

trees walk slowly toward the water—

gnarled roots trailing

like old souls returning home.

There are holes in the rocky shore

that gaze down into paradise.

Flames still dance in forgotten temples.

Candles weep tears of wax

on stone floors worn smooth

by barefoot prayers.

The air is thick with breath and offering.

The cenotes pulse—

dark mouths opening to sky

in worship and thirst.

Mangroves bow in brackish water,

guardians of the gods' reflection.

The jungle hushes

as ancestral drums keep time

in the marrow of silence.

Hearts once lifted in sacrifice

still echo in the limestone.

Shadowed figures pass among the trees,

tending memory with quiet hands.

Nothing here is dead.

Everything remembers.

II. The Ones Who Forgot

(Xel-Ha, Mexico – Rupture)

Now, the ancestors’ drums

can barely be heard

under the rhythmic pounding

of disco lights

and the clatter of flip-flops

on sacred stone.

The flames still burn,

but only for ambiance.

Candles flicker

beside neon cocktail menus.

Mangroves—majestic and mourning—

pose for paddle-boards

beneath resort logos

and drone footage.

Ancient ballgames, once played

with stakes of blood and spirit,

return as novelty sport.

In the Temazcal,

tourists sweat out tequila,

chanting borrowed words

into souvenir towels.

And still the gods watch.

Stone-eyed and silent,

they witness the spectacle

from crumbled altars—

drums hushed,

time mocked,

ritual repackaged.

And still the trees walk,

slowly,

toward the water.