The silvery mane,
As the tail of the comet,
Drapes the ceremonial shroud.
His deep and fearsome eyes,
Rival those of the jaguar in the wild.

As he rests within the sacred kiva,
His quivering hand senses,
Weathered lines, an aquiline nose.
He adjusts the loon woven cloth,
Caressing a jade amulet,
As visions of the jaguar hunt abound.

There is the smell of ritual incense,
Amid a resonant chant,
Lay the Son of Quintana Roo.

A proud symbol of ancient Mayan pride,
Like the Knights of Arthur,
A warrior of purpose and justice.

His final respire,
An ascension to an infinite peace...