Tezcatlipoca!

Of old they called me Mocker. Those I mocked 
Lie with dumb lips and eyelids sealed with night,
Upon their souls to-day I have no might, 
And all the doors my laughter burst are locked. 
Men's sheaves of shame by their own hands are shocked, 
And little for my mockery I glean, 
Although my laugh is heard, my shadow seen 
Wherever graves are dug or cradles rocked. 
Shorn am I of some splendour day by day. 
Robbed of some terror every night that falls. 
I can make towers rock and crumble walls 
And pluck the seed of life out of the clay,
But on man's fear my heart may no more feed; 
I, once man's Mocker — I am mocked indeed.