La Llorona

I love the song of the mockingbird,

Bird of the four hundred voices;

It took us long to realize

That one of those voices was hers.

Tonatzin, please don’t cry for us,

Your beloved children will be alright;

Even if the droughts drown our fields down,

And the fire floods up our wills.

Yaocíhuatl, warrior woman,

Don’t you see that your heart-wrenching screams

Are powerful enough to melt down our firewood

And light up the flowing water of the river?

Hummingbird, please fly away,

There’s no need to crush our bones.

Malintzin, don’t you fret,

Your progeny can forgive.

Our blood is yours, Llorona.

Your half-blood progeny will forgive.

Mother of the emperor too,

She passed down the power of her own blood,

And made sure to let it spread.

You cannot deny the mark on our foreheads;

It shines scarlet and it claims for vengeance.

The wind whispers in the flowers’ ears,

Please, tell me what it’s saying;

The flowers cry like mourning widows

Growing by the gravestones.

Your children were frightened, Llorona,

But you have as much fault of our downfall

As the cypress has when it cries for us.

Chocani, dead men tell no tales,

Which is why their sorrow is unbearable.

The darkness will cry down on you

When Tezcatlipoca realizes you are sunken in grief.

What withholds you from showing so?

You are within your rights.

Your children’s tears watered the meadows

Upon which They built their palaces

For our tears meant nothing

As much as our holy ground meant nothing

And our words meant nothing

And our sorrow meant nothing

And our blood meant nothing

And our pleading meant nothing

Then make their trepidation mean nothing,

Make them run away with fear, Llorona.

Show them whose land this is.

They hang their crosses behind wooden doors;

The fact that you’re gone doesn’t mean you’ll stop.

I saw you coming out of the temple one day,

Your children know you are devout;

When your children spot you, they see the Mother in you.

The crucifix behind the sinner’s door wept copper tears

When I told Him your story.

Can you imagine His misery?

The nails pierce His skin once more,

While He is bound to care for those who put Him there.

Look at us now, Llorona,

You, who come from yesterday and from today.

Look at your children now, and you’ll see

That our past splendor is gone.

They ripped it away from us with their guns

And their cannons

And then wore it as a new cloak for theater night.

You did not sell us out to them;

I know that this will not calm down your sorrow,

But we know.

We find you by the lake, by the river,

In the rain, amid the drainage,

Whilst your cries rise up from the underground.

The wicked ones run away with fright,

And your children miss you,

They turned you into a monster,

But we know Our Mother.

Take us to the river for the weekend, Mother.

Wrap us with your shawl; it’s cold outside.

Masqui no nemiliz nicpoloz, chocani,

Even if it kills me, Llorona,

Saicsemi ni mitztlasohtlaz.

I will never stop loving you.

Amo cahua nitlazotzin;

I will never leave you.