I am Tangáxoan Tzíntzicha, Cazonci of Tzintzuntzan, and in the twilight of my life the echo of an empire turning to ash resounds within me. Today, as a hidden blaze stirs on the horizon, my memories burn as vividly as the fragrance of the sweet lagoon in my homeland—Michuacán, once the cradle of life, now lying silent in neglect.
That morning, the sun emerged pale through heavy gray clouds, as if the heavens themselves sensed the impending tragedy. I trudged, chained, over cracked, parched earth, trailing behind a ceaselessly trotting horse, bound for a destiny steeped in betrayal. Every step reminded me of the burdens I bore, the firewood offerings we gave to Curicaueri, and the unyielding spirit of my people.
The roar of silence was both a lament and a promise. The faces of those who once hearkened to my word had faded into indistinct shadows at dusk. Nuño de Guzmán, his voice as hard as steel and his gaze devoid of mercy, pronounced my sentence—a trial seemingly authored by hands unacquainted with justice, its verdict masking the treachery of a world that had forsaken all that was sacred.
Amid murmurs and reproaches, a public declamation accused me of heresy and of sparking the deaths of countless Christians. Yet, deep within my soul, I understood that it was nothing more than the echo of a foreign conquest—a cry smothered by the wind. They called me a traitor, but I knew that every sacrifice had built fortresses for my people, and in every battle my spirit had fused with the land I loved so dearly.
The drifting smoke approached with deliberate, steady steps. As they led me to the pyre where fate would seal my end, my mind wandered along the winding paths of memory—the gentle murmur of water in the lagoons, the distant rustle of the hunt, the comforting warmth of springs that healed the weary. And in that recollection, the face of my daughter Eréndira appeared, her gaze as fierce as the promise of an uprising that, even in my final breath, sparked to life in the darkness.
I felt the heat of the flames caress my skin and knew it was the sacrifice demanded by the wrath of an abandoned god and the insatiable ambition of those who could not hear the heartbeat of the earth. The bonfire rose, monstrous and silent, like an altar of perdition. My body, once the bulwark of an empire, yielded to the crackling flames. In that moment, each spark became a verse of farewell, a whisper lost amidst wind and dust.
I could only think of my people’s future. Even as death claimed my blood, I knew the seed of rebellion had taken root in Eréndira’s heart, in the living memory of ancestors whose voices still murmured in the stones and the water. My existence was dissolving in the fire, yet my spirit would merge with the earth—eternal, like the memory of a people who will never forget their roots.
Now, standing on the brink between life and death, my voice rises in a silent cry—a hymn of sorrow and hope. I am Tangáxoan Tzíntzicha, and though my eyes close in this final twilight, my story will endure in every furrow of the land, in every whisper of the wind, in the indelible memory of Tzintzuntzan. Here, cradled by night and flame, my soul surrenders—not to defeat, but to the promise that even in the anguish of betrayal, the seed of freedom will bloom.
