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O guerreiro foi purificado pelo fogo.
O ídolo de barro foi purificado pelo fogo.
O cacique de penas vermelhas foi purificado pelo fogo.
Ele era meu amigo, tinha vindo de longe,
de longe tinha trazido sua integridade física
porque que eu saiba, moral ele não tinha nenhuma.
Tinha, isto sim, uma pena nas mãos que eu confundia com uma espada.
(aliás, nada nele era completamente definido a não ser os olhos e o cocar).
Dias e noites eu chegava em case e refletia em mim as mil faces, os mil tropeços e nem sequer notava sua presença, ali parado, sem revelar se estava ou não contente com a vida.

The warrior was purified by the fire.
The idol of clay was purified by the fire.
The red-feathered chief was purified by the fire.
He was my friend, he had come from far,
from far away he brought his physical integrity,
because as far as I know, morals he had none.
Yes, I held a feather in my hands that I confounded with a sword.
(Incidentally, nothing in it was completely except for the eyes and the head dress).
Days and nights I arrived at the house and reflected in me the thousand faces, the thousand stumbling and didn’t even notice his presence, standing there, without revealing if he was content with life or not.