During the not very frequent visits, due to the longed-for trips to my ever yearned-for country Isamaleno, one of my friend’s daughters named Rosita said to me: “Among the various legends you have written, there isn’t a single one dedicated to love.”

Is there no legend of love in our land? Now I will answer you: yes, there is, and I will gladly share it with you.

One day, in the afternoon, I was walking around the Kinich-Kakmo hill after one of the drizzling rains that fall on us from the sky in summer, and while observing the few architectural monuments that have survived and bending over one of them to study the details that caught my attention, I heard a quiet voice softly ask me: “Is that you, Balam?” Stunned, I looked around. Was it just an illusion?

But the question was repeated, and to my amazement, it came from a flower of a wild herb called immortelle.

By chance or superstition, I answered: “Who are you to call me by a name that is not mine?” Then it answered me: “You are not my Balam and you do not know me, but if you listen to me, I will tell you my story and who I am.”

I immediately agreed. Then the quiet little voice continued the story.

I was a priestess of the Itzamatul temple, daughter of the chief of my beloved Isamal. I had taken a vow of chastity, which my position demanded of me. This meant that all my love could only be for my god, not for a mortal. To my misfortune, at one of the frequent sporting games (among us called ball games) I met one of the bravest warriors of my country, who also distinguished himself in the competitions. His name was Balam. We fell in love with each other and, using all tricks, began to meet around my temple, hiding in the night’s shadow.

But somehow, this reached the ears of the High Priest of the Temple… During one meeting, we were caught off guard and as punishment, I was forced to sacrifice myself at the feet of the Red God Kinich, and he was to witness the sacrifice at the foot of his staircase.

The tragic day came, I vaguely remember being painted and dressed in blue, the magical color for those who die at the feet of the God. Like in a dream, I made my way through the crowd gathered on the wide esplanade leading to the second building of the temple of the God Kinich, but I remember that at the foot of the stairs stood my Balam, to carry out his sentence—to be a witness to the sacrifice. I remember all this as if in a dream, until, laid on the sacrificial stone, I felt terrible pain as my chest was torn apart and my heart was ripped out, and… my body remained dead, but my heart? Or my soul? They remained alive.

Then my heart convulsively twitched and broke free from the hands of the high priest and rolling down the steps of the temple, it did not stop until it fell at the feet of my beloved Balam. I remember telling him with my heart: “Take me, I am yours.” He ran with me in his arms to hide, no one dared to stop him, and on a clear full moon night he brought me to be buried at the foot of this temple. He said he would return to me, I waited for him in vain, many moons in my useless waiting, and my Balam never came.

Overcome with strong emotion, I explained to her that not many moons had passed, but years, centuries, and that her waiting was already in vain.

Did you hear me and understand? I do not know. I never heard that quiet voice again. But, overcome with strong emotion, I brought my lips closer to kiss the flower from which the voice had come, and the little flower opened its petals, and in its depths in the twilight I saw a drop glisten. Was it the trace of the past rain or was it the last tear shed for her by Balam, who knows?

Then I understood why the immortelle has survived there to this day, and why it has spread along all the roads of the Maya land in vain search of its beloved Balam, who will never return.