A speaker is waiting with a child—or perhaps a younger generation—addressed as “Child of the Aztec gods.” They have been listening since early morning, but the setting feels ancient and dust-covered: lintels and doors are thick with dark dust, as if the place is unused or sacred and forgotten. The speaker’s repeated question—“How long must we listen here, how long before we go?”—sounds weary, but not hopeless. They are waiting for dreams and a song to arrive, something strong enough to shake their bones and give them direction. The mention of Aztec gods hints that this waiting may be tied to cultural memory or spiritual inheritance.
The mood is quiet, still, and slightly eerie. Dust builds rather than clears, and when the speaker wonders if the doors and lintels shudder, there is a sense that change may be near but has not yet come. It feels like a vigil balanced between exhaustion and expectation.