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M Srisaravana Apr 2020
I see them flowers withering, Llorona,
The cold wind sweeps them away,
The leaves and stems are so empty, Llorona,
Come at ones to collect them, Llorona, Llorona,

There's darkness surrounds me, Llorona,
Like a burned coal mixes with the air,
It has consumed me to the core, Llorona,
You are my absolution, Llorona, Llorona,

They say I bring the calamity, Llorona,
Distructruction above all laid,
Even the full moon will hide from the sight, Llorona,
Take me to the river and show me Llorona, Llorona,

My eyes are filled with sorrow, Llorona,
No more butterflies of colors flip the wings,
A dune of a pale sand desert grows in me, Llorona,
Come with the rain and drizzle me Llorona, Llorona,

I wander in the woods and the lakes, Llorona,
Looking for a white gown of a woman weeping,
To give my will freely to your salvation, Llorona,
Hold me in your arms as I pass into thee, Llorona, Llorona,

If your wailing needs life to be taken, Llorona,
Let another child live with joy and meaning,
Take my wasted soul without falter, Llorona,
Let us go into the void of salvation, Llorona, Llorona.
Just inspired by the folklore of La Llorona
Bailey B  Oct 2010
La Llorona
Bailey B Oct 2010
i wonder

if someone else called you

to tell them a story

because the nightmares wouldn't cut their ropes,

would you kick your heels

upon your desk and spin

a tale as long as the night itself

until they fell asleep?

"a beautiful red-haired princess

lived in a land

far far away

but she was so amazing

that the prince would scale

the highest of the mountainsides

to see her"

you were always writing me

into fairytales

and sometimes they helped

fight the darkness

did I ever tell you about those nightmares?

how I heard an old Chicano folktale

about La Llorona

and how she came to me in a dream

weeping and screeching

and clawing at her eyes

and shrieking "Ayudame!"

through the tangle of the black woods in front of me

twisting riddles through my slumber.

do you know that

sometimes during barre stretch,

when we shoot our legs skyward,

or when i'm filing college interviews

your smile-laugh ripples

through my ears

and I grit my teeth

through peppermint pain

and try to drown it out?

did I ever tell you

when I got the phrases

"La Llorona"y "la rana"

scrambled up in my brain?

La maestra told us we would be

leyendo un cuento

sobre la rana

en the pond

and I thought she meant a story of

La Llorona

the wailing woman

maestro of a symphony of screams

and my heart stopped working

and I told her, "No puedo, I can't."

and she said, "Silly girl, la rana es 'the frog'."

and laughed.

do you remember when

they took me to a grave

and you told me about cancer

and how you thought that you'd die young?

you said it

so calmly

as if the dead around you

were offering up their Easter lilies

as a bridal bouquet

to be tossed to a lucky relative

and i just looked at you

with sea-glass eyes

and you kissed me

as the tears spilled over

into silent rivers

down my cheeks

i wonder

if sometimes

when you listen closely

you can hear the bottle-sculptures'

mouths lisping with the wind

or la rana

croaking in the pond

and smile-laughing right along with you

at me.

if the story has a different beginning now

or a middle

or an end

or if you've written me out entirely

or maybe just changed my fate

"a beautiful red-haired princess

was punished for her vanity

and doomed to wander and wail

for all of eternity

for she had done wrong."

and am I La Llarona,

the weeping woman?

because that's all I ever

seemed to do

The dreams are gone now

or, rather, the nightmares

but there are some things

more haunting in reality.

i wonder if she hears

the coded tick-tock

of the static

or the shrill cries

of tortured souls

forever searching

forever lost

i wonder

if you love her

more than me.
Paul d'Aubin  Jan 2014
La Llorona
Paul d'Aubin Jan 2014
La Llorona

(ce poéme écrit après avoir écouté la chanson est
dédié à Frida Kahlo et à Joan Baez)

Sur les remparts de Tenochtitlan
tu ne sors qu'à la nuit couchante
les nuits ou la lune est orange tourne
rouge de sang et d'amertume.
Tu fais briller ta chevelure
de geai, tel un diamant noir,
ton nom est "Llorona la belle"
qui nous appelle de ses pleurs.
Et tente de nous attirer
Avec sa voix rauque et ses pleurs.

Tu annonces la venue de ceux
par qui la mort doit advenir.
Car telle est ta prophétie
magicienne, du Monde Indien.
Surtout passant, ferme les yeux
et retiens ton amour naissant
car la Llorona ne vient pas
pour te serrer dans ses bras
et te donner sa douce peau,
Ni te couvrir de baisers.

Elle se fait messagère de malheur.
Et annonce les temps nouveaux
D’où surgiront les hommes barbus, bardés de fer
avec ces animaux fabuleux
Et leur bâton de foudre et de tonnerre
qui tuent mieux que la guerre fleurie.
Son chant est hymne funèbre
ou la prophétie s'accomplit
dans les cliquetis d’acier,
la maudite soif de l’or
et le feu des bûchers.

Garde toi de suivre « la pleureuse »
qui t'annonce les jours maudits,
ou le sang indien va couler
et le Peuple être mis en servage.
Loran ta beauté est venin
cartes présages sont les flèches
que nous lancent les "temps nouveaux".
Pleurons, tous, notre liberté
et les jours de cendre venus,
et la chute des Dieux serpents.

Paul Arrighi, Toulouse
(ce poéme écrit après avoir écouté la chanson est
dédié à Frida Kahlo et à Joan Baez)