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Writer's pictureDarkling Thrushes

Quetzalcoatl's Gift

The Headhunter’s ran up the hill, 

To see if the sun was the New God. 

We, from our home among the caves, 

Fixed our arrows at their turned backs. 

Every time we laughed or cried, 

The singing sound quickly left them 

Pierced upon the fiery ground-- 

A warlike race that died disgraced. 

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