Put on thy golden garment.
O my god, thy rich sacrificial water descended;
The lofty cypress tree has become a quetzal;
That which was a serpent has become a quetzal.
The fire-serpent, the famine, has left me.
It may be that I shall go thence to perish,
I, the young maize-plant.
My heart is like a chalchihuitl;
But I shall yet see gold in that place.
I shall be satisfied when I can say