All the Earth is a grave and nothing escapes it, nothing is so perfect that it does not descend into its tomb. Rivers, rivulets, fountains and waters flow, but never return to their joyful beginnings; anxiously they hasten on the vast realms of the rain god. As they widen their banks, they also fashion the sad urn of their burial.
Filled are the bowels of the earth with pestilential dust once flesh and bone, once animate bodies of men who sat upon thrones, decided cases, presided in council, commanded armies, conquered provinces, possessed treasure, destroyed temples, exulted in their pride, majesty, fortune, praise and power.
Vanished are these glories, just as the fearful smoke vanishes that belches forth from the infernal fires of Popocatepetl. Nothing recalls them but the painted page.
Do we really live on earth? We are not on earth forever, we are only here for a little while. We are mortal, our mortality defines us. We have to die, we all have to go away, all of us. Like a painting, we gradually fade.
- Nezahualcoyotl (15th Century Acolhua ruler from Texcoco, central Mexico)
Mictlán is the underworld in the traditional Nahua cosmology, in the bowels of Cipactli, the primordial crocodile and earth monster.
1600 X 1200 Gif pixelated rework / animated version of a digital painting from 2015
