lays me low;
It is my son Mixcoatl.
Our mother the warrior.
The deer from Colhuacan,
She is stuck with feathers.
Morning has dawned
The order to the warriors has gone forth.
Drag the captives hence,
The whole land shall be destroyed.
The deer from Colhuacan,
She is stuck with feathers.
Those who fight bravely in war
Are painted with eagle-feathers.22