WUTHERING HEIGHTS

Written by AustMathr Viking Dubliner e Inglesa Luso-Chinesa. Copyright protected by Law # 9610/1998. 

I have no memories of that purple and fertile land, Named after the mother of a heaven´s son, No memories of that residence in a backyard garage, All I have are hearsay stories, But following the path of an armadillo, Memories go up to the burrow entrance on the surface to look around, That is when a second mother comes to teach to write at an age that still needs to grow, To discover the world, A treasure unearthed beneath open sky, And waiting for lucky pioneers, Eventually leading to a foot cut by a shiver of glass, That hurts less than it scares, Like the lonesome darkness on the second floor, Haunting in wuthering heights, And making living souls grieve, Atonements come with weeping and writhing under a table, Or the primer of a toy gun, The pedalling tin car, And the steering wheel under repair, Delaying but not failing, From this land we take away textile yarn cones improvised as carnival adornments, A belt with an unforgetable elephant buckle, And the bleeding hens´feet pierced by termites sharing the same space on a truck´s body, And when following the paths of traps made of lianas and bamboos, I can see that no fish can escape them, But they do not keep the second mother in my world, And it is sad they seem to throw all recollections in the forgetfulness river, As if we were ready to reincarnate, And in the end what is left are the wild wasps taking care of the grid very close to the ground, Drawing air and sunlight to the basement, And the watermelon trees that start to sprout in the very moment we are about to leave home, And that brings up obscure reminiscences marching on in a scorching heat to the plain of Lethe, A barren waste destitute of trees and verdure, The river of unmindfulness, Whose water no vessel can hold, Only makes one forget, Makes us sense fake breezes, And will not let your only son see you departing, A son you wanted to possess, With good intentions, Since you were only misery from a run away mother, With no hard feelings for being hated, For being loved by quite a few, And without any reason to scare anybody away in bad dreams, Not knowing anything about your lost battles, And right now your only son leaves behind those devastating dark nights with nobody to share feelings with and he calls your name, My second mother, Alice, That is me, Your only son, I am still on the other side, As lost here as you are there, I´ll be home soon, I will exorcise my first mother´s last Hail Mary, Wishing we can get together, This time with open eyes, To hold you, And maybe together we can choose our new destiny, Lachesis may elect the genius to be the guardian of our lives and the fulfiller of our choices, And this genius may lead our souls first to Clotho, And draw them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand, Thus ratifying our fate, And if we are fastened to this, She may carry us to Atropos, Who spins the threads and makes them irreversible, Whence without turning round we may pass beneath the throne of Necessity, And who knows, We may start a new life, And restore our stolen time.