La LLorona

Cross open ranges, dark mountains, dried rivers
Ran the moon, a glowing lantern
Shining through trees in slivers
As she wanders eternally, in an endless pattern.

Her hands are marked with tears
And her gown a ghostly white
From her eyes are crimson fears
Bringing sadness to the night.

Sorrowfully weeping, she slides across polished stones
Lost, La Llorona, lost, and ever forlorn
Calling for her child in a haunting baritone;
As branches and flowers softly underfoot are torn.

Cross the mighty bridge came a troubadour a’ riding
And from the Earth, he heard a darkened tiding
As she let fly a piercing cry for her lost child
The horse thrown rider fell, the moon observed ever mild.

To his gasping, cracking body, Miss Llorona strode
His hands were splayed, his blood was spilt
        As are words in an Ode.
The white of his eyes to heaven did stare
        And his soul was fixed to her loving glare.

Choking upon his words with fear
As the moon graced his complexion
He did little but shed a final tear
And in the sanguine lake was the orbs reflection.
On this fateful nights affectation.

As the spirit sank to the rider, as white as ivory powder.
And stroked his hair, and cooed his ear, with unearthly power.
And to ancient arms he sank into his final mother.

For Signorita Llorona has found once again her child,
In this heathenly hour.