The Aztec philosophers asked the question, what is the third force, what is the bond and outcome of harmony? But they did not ask it in these structure-laden words, rather they asked, what is his flower, what is her song? The love and the child both make the marriage true.

And when the flower and the song came together, the Aztecs would say: The flowers sprout, they are fresh, they grow;

they open their blossoms,

and from within emerge the flowers of song;

among men You scatter them, You send them.

You are the singer!

The flower is the man, the song the woman, the flower of song the third strand winding gaily in the dark.

This must be a very careful business, this communion, for it can easily make such a flame that the flower is burned.

My flowers shall not cease to live;

My songs shall never end:

I, a singer, intone them:

They become scattered, they are spread about.

Cortez emerged from the sea, and the shadow of the creator as destroyer stalked in the land, then the flowers were trodden down and the brutal, beautiful Aztec civilization was destroyed forever.

Destined is my heart to vanish,

like the ever-withering flowers?

What can my heart do?

At least flowers, at least songs!

So a dark triad was completed, the gory Aztec flower cut by the booming Spanish song.

For there to be growth instead of death, much more must be brought to the triad than mere conquest. Or "contact," which, if the visitors are as advanced as they seem, would amount to a form of conquest. Communion is as wide as all the knowledge of both partners, as deep as their whole souls. Marriage requires patience, giving without thought to keep accounts. When one says' I gave this and so I am owed that," the marriage has not yet begun. Real sharing rests in a balanced recognition of sameness and difference. It is a discovery of balances and equalities.

We need to give ourselves to our experience, without knowing what it is, trusting that our understanding will grow as we proceed. To participate truly in this experience, we must marry the unknown. The only belief is the question itself: Love is a matter of leaping out into the sky.

But then again, one cannot be objective in the context of an excess of passion. We must be careful, for the stakes are high: Mankind is in the position of maturing as a species at the same time that our planet could be dying. We have a difficult road ahead. We must resist all temptation to wait for the visitors to save us. If we wait, we can be sure that nothing will save us. We have to learn to live on the edge of the razor.