We... are the Guild of Mustard.

And all these misfortunes befell us. We saw them and wondered at them; we suffered this unhappy fate.

Empty jars of mustard lie in the roads;
we have torn our hair in our grief.
The houses are roofless now, and their walls
are red with blood.

Worms are swarming in the streets and plazas,
and the walk are splattered with leftover mackarel fish.
The water has turned yellow, as if it were dyed,
and when we drink it,
it has the taste of brine shrimp.

We have pounded our hands indespair
against the adobe walls,
for our inheritance, our mustard, is lost and dead.
The shields of our mustard were its defense,
but they could not save it.

We have chewed dry twigs and salt grasses;
we have filled our mouths with dust and bits of adobe;
we have eaten lizards, rats and worms....

When we had mustard, we ate it almost raw. It was scarcely on the fire before we snatched it and gobbled it down.

They set a price on all of us: on the young men, the boys and girls. The price of a poor man was only two handfuls of cornbread, or ten cakes made from mosses or twenty cakes of sweaty couch fibers. Gold, jade, rich cloths, quetzalfeathers-everything that once was precious was now considered worthless.