A Sonnet in the Temple

Upon attending an archeological museum in a Catholic church in Oaxaca, Mexico.

Inner courtyard, fountain flowing, former convent, by bestowing.
A language strange, and customs crude, prisoners butchered and
A language rude.  I smile throughout, the figures strange, the joy 
of knowing, so little changed. The Temple saintly, a Dominican order,

Contemplative, spiritually cured disorder. The soldiers, horses, stones and
Stable, warehoused souls, proud and able.  Ash and bone, gold and jade
Jaguars' teeth, with love displayed. Tomb and urn, a ruler slain, his heart
Consumed, blood imploring. Punctured tongues and shattered graves

Of kings and widows, stingrays' blades. The Lighting and companion
Clouds, flying turtles, cumulonimbus clouds. Cortes awaits, a crumpled 
sheet, new Spain's before us. We shall meet, amid the rain and wind and hail.
The spectacular angry face of sky, wind or breath or spirit, lie

Flowing in the days of light, cycle of two hundred dismal nights,
One solar, one ritual, their names obscure, to the obsidian blade demure.