Wrizzit

Do not speak to me. That is the first mercy I can still offer. Hear me if you must. Cross yourself. Hide your face. Pull your child close against your breast. But do not answer when I ask the hour, and do not try to lift my reboso. The living think every voice can be answered, every woman questioned, every sorrow soothed. They are wrong. My mouth kills now. They call me La Llorona. The Wailing Woman. They say I walk the streets of Mexico by night in a white petticoat, with my head covered, and that I run faster than any Christian woman should. They say I cry for my children. They call me wicked in life and worse in death. That is true. It is not all. *** This is the beginning of my post in the Fairytale and Folklore magazine, the DL is coming nearer, but it's still time to join and write, sing, draw, any and all expressions. Come and join us! *** Art by Ira Robinsson