BALLAD OF THE MOON


Silence in the waiting... 
Taste of blind night, in the hidden belly
There are only two arms, like wounded logs
Remote islands where the castaways recover life
Woman - tree/ Destiny of light on earth
Only the opaque silence remains and substantive in every corner 
Please do not undress, my centuries of solitude just for the pleasure of thunder
Now that I have found you under the green colors of hope
Now that the mythology of your body lies on my shadow
Now that life emerges from the bottom of my soul... 
Don't go away! 
If you do, you will see how my eyes disappear under the slow ballad of the moon.


YOUR GROWING 

Red foam 
Brackish, 
With the wisdom of the waves that leave in the fiction of the horizon... 

Glorious in the arms of the sun 
A bunch of grains run away... 

The flame and the freshness flee 
For a model spike further from the sky

Release from prison in which one gets used 
He knows that the horizon divides hope 
Seeking to transgress, 
That force that prints 
When it advances and obstinates, the closing area... 

Socializing the looks 
Soon your growing will come again 
And with him, the confident drunkenness 
That all directions they take me... 
To find you!!


GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE writer. Poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters, author of seven books. Poetry genre. Awarded several times worldwide. She works as she, World Manager of Educational and Social Projects, of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

The Floor

I feel like the floor. Everything else here has a purpose. A unique purpose. Not the floor.

The rightmost wall
Has the doors
From Outside.
Leading in.
And the doormat
And doorstop
That is actually just a large rock painted yellow.
The leftmost wall
Has the only outside
Windows.
Some clear.
Some frosted.
Some cross-hatched.
And of course the door
Leading to the balcony
And the balcony.
The front-most wall
Has the whiteboard
With announcements
And the white
Projector screen
That rolls down.
And the obnoxious 
Bird clock
That chirps
And barely tells time.
The back-most wall
Has Heather’s room
With Heather’s snacks.
The upperclassmen’s room
And the functional clock.
Two actually.
The floor has the rug. 
Which is all that people care about.

They don’t dare to step on it, but walk all over the floor.
They talk about how nice it would be if there was just a gaping hole in a rectangle shape.
Where the rug is.
And yarn veins of rug rooted all the way through to the first floor.
Like a pool of rug.
What about the floor.

Dreamtime

            The beating of the hollow bamboo kulkul pulled her from the dream world. Sounds of roosters and dogs crowded her consciousness. Through the wooden grill she glimpsed mist drifting upward, blurring the tall dark palm trees at the edge of the gorge. In the distance, she picked out Mt. Agung, silhouetted against spreading wisps of orange. Like a woman’s breast, the quiescent volcano nurtures nearby Besakih, the Hindu mother temple of Bali, she thought. Anna rolled her naked body over the edge of the low bamboo bed. Feet touching the cool tile, she stepped slowly through the carved open doors onto the secluded balcony.

            Already Ketut was moving about the losmen, a small compound of bungalows, gently placing incense and offerings in the doorways – small woven palm baskets filled with flowers, bits of rice, meat, and vegetables. He gave a slight kick to the gifts intended for the bad spirits. “We take you to Barong Dance,” he had said, “then know for long time good Barong dance with evil witch Rangda.”

            Large white puffy clouds hung over the crater. Anna smiled, remembering Ketut’s words. “Clouds over Gunung Agung mean good lucky.”  She went back into the bedroom and pulled the sheets over her, drawing the last of the night’s coolness from them.      

            The hot sun drove through the open window. She jerked awake. Nine years, and it’s not finished, she thought, even when I think it is. The nightmare had chased her half-way round the world. The divorce judge asks if she has anything to say. She can’t move, speak. She fades into the dull light of the courtroom. I am not going to let this dream destroy my vacation, Anna reminds herself.

            Anna slipped into a turquoise T-shirt and brightly patterned shorts she had bought in the states. She loved wearing them because the children were drawn to her, laughing as they touched the patches of fuchsia, yellow, and purple. Their playful game took her back to the long summer nights of her childhood. After splashing water on her face and running a brush through her short hair, Anna strolled to the dining porch high above the terraced rice paddies.

            “What for breakfast?” asked Ketut.

            “Teh, two eggs, soft-boiled, toast bread, and fruit salad,” she laughed, thinking there’s not much choice at this losmen. Breakfasts were good. After two weeks,  Anna was just tired of the same thing. Or, was it three?   She pulled out the bamboo chair, her mind drifting back to that first day.

            She remembered how the plane had raced the sun toward Indonesia. The reddened sky formed a backdrop for eerie cloud formations that seemed to grow like stalagmites from a sunken lake. Dropping over tiny green islands, edged with beaches, the plane began its long descent and taxied toward a primitive building with a tin roof.

             Children raced toward the tarmac to greet the landing in the early dawn. A pregnant woman and two children were silhouetted against the sky; three men hunkered in the grass along the runway. Anna walked toward the airport through the heavy air. A warm light rain brushed her face. Ancient sounds pulled her up the stairs and down the long wooden walkway to the holding area where she saw singers and dancers, dressed in feathers and fluttering strips of grass, welcoming passengers. Tears came to Anna’s eyes. She wanted to sob. Home, she thought, I’m home, even though I’ve never been to these islands.

             “It’s the people that make Indonesia,” a man standing next to her said.          

             Ketut laid out her breakfast. “Program today?”

            “I am thinking of going to the market, so I can try more kinds of fruit. I’m also thinking of looking for a place to get my watch fixed. Is there a place in Ubud?”

            “No place here. Must go to Denpasar, maybe Gianyar. You want me take on motorbike?”

            “The first day I am here, my watch stopped running. I think maybe I need a battery. You sure there is no place here?”

            “No, no place here,” he repeated.

            “I am afraid of motorbike. I also need to confirm airplane reservations. I could hire a driver to take me to Denpasar and do everything the same day.”

            She watched Ketut walk toward the stairs that led to the kitchen below. Typical Balinese man, she thought, shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, small round buttocks, firm straight legs, black curly hair, unselfconsciously sensuous. Anna laughed softly with pleasure, not wanting him to hear.

            Any illusions about Balinese lovers had been quickly brushed aside by expats. Activities involving the physical senses, including eating and making love, were finished as quickly as possible. Balinese desires seemed to be centered on living in harmony with each other, the natural world, and the spirit that animates Life.

            After she had checked into the losmen, she and Ketut walked up the stairs to her room. “Already married?” he asked.

            “Already divorced nine years.”

             “Maybe you like Ketut be Balinese husband?” He put her luggage down.                                                                                                                        

            “No, Ketut,” she said, with a hasty, forced laugh. “I’m old enough to be your mother!  I have a daughter twice your age.” 

            He handed her keys to the room. “I hope sleep good. I down stairs if need anything.

Selamat tidur.”

             She felt a slow burn rise in her belly. Ketut was the age of the boy she had met in high school who would become her future husband. Rich had seen her across the cafeteria and knew the shy girl would be his. They talked endlessly about books, movies, ideas. His favorite author was Hemingway, hers Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They would study literature in college and create a life filled with things they loved.

            One night, after her parents had gone upstairs to bed, they turned off the kitchen lights and whispered in the glow of the wall heater. “Sit on my lap,” he said. It was over before she knew what happened.

             The next day Rich called. “You have to marry me. No one will want damaged goods now.”  She felt confused like she had been when she told her father she wanted to go to college and get married after graduation. “If that isn’t the damndest thing I’ve ever heard. Girls don’t need to go to college. Some boy will get you into the bushes before that happens.” 

            Her mind, returned to the past, made Anna feel like she was having a near-death experience. Memory chased memory.

             “If you drop out of college and save money,” her fiancé said, “we can get married sooner. You can go back to school when I graduate.”  She settled into a secretarial job. “I need a master’s,” he said, “so I can get a good job.” Rich didn’t specifically state what he meant. Anna knew she would once more set aside her own education.

            Two years later Rich had an appointment with his thesis advisor to wrap up the details of his degree. He came home, gathered up the baby and held her softly to his chest. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

            “I tried a new recipe, lamb chops stuffed with blue cheese. I think they’ll be great, but dinner will be a little late. I just had to finish sewing this baby dress. Isn’t it cute?”

             Rich picked the tiny dress up with his free hand and said, “Yes, it is. I’m excited, too. My advisor told me the department chair wanted to see me. Bill offered me a job as a teaching assistant and invited me to enroll in the Ph.D. program, so I could teach at the college level. I accepted both offers. I hope we can make it now that you are working part-time.”  

            When their daughter was ready to start kindergarten, Anna’s slow burn burst into flame. She shoved her anger deep into her gut and announced, “I’m quitting my job and going back to school. I’ll take one course at a time and fit it around your schedule.” 

            Over time, TV and a six-pack of beer began to preempt dinner. “You’re becoming an alcoholic, please get help,” she said.

            “I’m not,” he snapped. Eventually, two six-packs and no dinner defined their evenings.            “Can’t you even come and sit with me on the couch during commercials?” Anna asked one last question:  “Will you come with me to therapy?”

            “I’m happy. You’re the one that’s not.”  Two visits later, the therapist ended the sessions.

            “I want out,” she said.

            “I’ve always loved you. I have never been unfaithful. How can you do this to me?” 

It didn’t occur to Anna to ask Rich the same question.

            Anna thought both of their parents sounded like echoes. “How can you, a wife, leave your husband?” Their daughter, who now lived in New York City, was the only one who dared mention the word she had stated when she was thirteen. At that time, she had asked her mother, “Why don’t you get a divorce?” Anna wondered how a young child could know what she was feeling, when she scarcely knew herself.

              Within a year of their divorce, Rich married a student, fathered a child, and moved into a huge house with a swimming pool. Like her ex, the men she met preferred women half their age.

             Anna moved into a studio apartment and cried every day for a year. Verlaine’s poem Il pleure dans mon coeur (It Rains in My Heart) saturated  her mind like an unending squall. Their friends became his friends. A pariah, she left Michigan and drove cross-country to California.

            Her mind drifted back to what she was going to do about the broken watch. Anna had managed better than she thought and wondered if she could put off the repair until the day of her late afternoon flight. The unrest of the past year, precipitated by Mandela’s freedom, the Gulf War, and the tumbling of the Berlin Wall, might make it too risky to wait until the last moment. She had to have the watch fixed when she hit work in her deadline-oriented public relations job.

            A few months ago, Anna had read in the Los Angeles Times about the fast-disappearing paradise and knew with piercing clarity that she must go there. “I want to take a two-month leave and go to Bali,” she said to her boss, a tall beautiful woman who liked to say she spent more money on clothes in a week than on the monthly rent for her high-rise condo.

             “I took a chance on hiring you, mid-forties, no experience. I can’t afford to have you gone that long. How about two weeks?”

            “I know it sounds crazy, but I need two months.”    

            “If you go, I can’t guarantee you’ll have a job when you get back. There are plenty of young barracudas ready to edge you out.”

            Anna walked across the hall to her office. She carefully shut the door, even though she wanted to slam it – something she had never done in her life. Her legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. She whispered under her breath, “God damn it!  My father, my husband, and now my boss driving my choices. When am I going to be in the driver’s seat?”

             During her lunch break, Anna bought a ticket from Garuda airline. “May the holy bird Garuda carry you safely to Bali,” the agent said.

            She signed the credit card receipt, her hand shaking, her silk dress damp with perspiration. Anna walked toward her car, laughter and crying twisted into a rivulet of tears. She wondered how she could throw away her job, retirement, and maybe the niggling dream of finding a husband.

            Anna leaned her weight against the side of her dark green Ford Fairmont and tried to find her compass. She clutched her hands to her head and said, “After more than twenty years, I’ve got it:  I’m what Betty Friedan called a trapped woman, another casualty of the feminine mystique.”

            A man, getting into the silver Mercedes next to her, said “What’s the matter, lady?”  

            In a suffocated voice, she said, “I’m wondering if Betty Friedan is laughing or crying with me.”

            He shouted across the top of his car, “Who cares?  You’re better looking.”

            I care, she thought. I’m going to please myself. Anna looked at her watch. Oh, my God, not this minute. I’m going to have to go to a drive-through, grab some food, and eat at my desk, so I can turn in the Anderson marketing plan to the big guns by three.

            The short time in Bali had already helped her kick Cronos aside and slip into the loving embrace of Kairos. Anna loved being in the moment. She was beginning to understand the dance that had brought her to this place. She didn’t know if she still had a job. She did know that when she returned she was going to visit colleges in the area and find out what it would take to teach at one of them. It was time to come home to herself, to the longing in her soul. Repairing her watch could wait, the hole in her heart couldn’t.

            She cut the egg shells with quick strokes of her knife and scooped the golden contents onto her plate, adding butter and pinches of salt and pepper. Satisfied with breakfast, she settled back to savor her ginger tea, the fragrance competing with the sweetness of the frangipani.

            Anna caught a speck of scarlet coming across the rice fields, reminding her of the brilliant red, orange, and pink hibiscus in the gardens around the bungalows. The woman, dressed in a drab sarong and long-sleeved shirt, approached a man who was already cutting the bulging rice stalks. She shook out her long silky black hair, wound it quickly into a knot, and finished with a second knot. The two were joined by another woman, also plainly dressed, wearing a huge hat woven from palm leaves.

            They quickly cleared the wet paddy and neatly stacked the sheaves on the narrow grass path surrounding it. The woman with the bright head covering walked to a hut nearby, returning with an old metal barrel on her head that she dropped with a dull sound onto a large indigo mat the others had spread over the muddy earth. They carefully positioned the barrel, and the woman in the scarlet headdress began beating the bundles against the metal, turning them from front to back as the mat received the tiny grains of rice. The other two moved to a new sawah, their scythes playing a slow rhythm against the sounds from the other woman’s barrel.

            Anna, lost in the wordless harmony of their work, didn’t hear Ketut come up beside her.

“You no go to market?” asked Ketut.

            “I don’t think so. I was watching the workers and forgot about time. It’s too late and too hot. I am going to swim. Can you bring soup for lunch, please, when I get back?”

            She continued to look toward the farmers. “Hard work, isn’t it?”  Even in paradise, she thought, but they work with such ease.

            “Yes,” said Ketut. “Only three in family. My family have fifty people for rice cutting.” 

Surprised by the large number, she turned to look at him.

            “You go to odalan again tonight?” he asked.

            “Yes. You, too?”

            “Of course, family temple. You come again with family?  We bring flowers and

incense for prayer. Seven o’clock we go.”

            “Thank you, Ketut. I will remember to wear my sarong and prayer sash.”

             Her mind drifted back to last night, the beginning of the four-day odalan to celebrate the anniversary of the temple. For hours, women, dressed in sarongs and sheer kebayas, ornaments and flowers in their hair, had processed to the temple with carefully arranged offerings piled high on their heads. The men were equally adorned in beautiful sarongs and headdresses laced with gold and silver, flowers tucked behind their ears. The gamelan players, a mass of turquoise silk shirts, punctuated the ceremonies with their ritual clanging music. Well-behaved children were dressed in their best.

            Sounds and images of the previous evening  came back in a rush:  joking; laughter; cigarettes; prayer and a blessing by the priest; bright parasols with fringe; dancers; black and white checked sarongs; strips of gold and white cloth wrapped around the intricately carved gods. The ceremony continued long after the moon appeared in the star-filled sky.

            “Isn’t it late for little children to be up, Ketut?” she asked.

             “No. Good not sleep much. Keep close to dreamtime. All life dreamtime.”

Fay L. Loomis, member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and Rats Ass Review Workshop, lives a quiet life in upstate New York. Her poetry and prose appear in Best of Mad Swirl 2022, Herbs & Spices Anthology (Highland Park Poetry), As It Ought To Be Magazine, Down in the Dirt, Five Fleas, W-Poesis, Spillwords, and elsewhere.

Victorian Literature: Charlotte Bronte’s Novel Jane Eyre

•	Jane Eyre is a bildungsroman which follows the experiences of its eponymous heroine, including her growth to adulthood and her for Mr. Rochester, the brooding master of Thornfield Hall.
•	”I grieve to leave Thornfield Hall….I I love it because I have lived in it full and delightful. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried in inferior minds and excluded from the companion of what is bright, energetic and white. I have talked face to face——-with an original, a vigorous and an expanded mind”/ 

•	The novel revolutionizes prose fiction by focusing the protagonist’s moral and spiritual development through an intimate first person narrative, where actions and events are coloured by a psychological intensity. 
•	Charlotte Bronte has been the first female historian of the private consciousness. She is the literary ancestors of writers like James Joyce and Michael Proust. 

•	Along with Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice romance novel depicts social commentary critiquing gender relations, class hierarchy, sexual orientation, religious aspects and feminist discourses.
•	At Gateshead Hall Jane is detested and tormented by her aunt Mrs. Sarah Reeds and cousins Georgiana and Eliza both emotionally and physically.
•	Her education at Lowood School gains her friends and role models but she suffers oppression.

•	Her time as a governess at Thornfield Hill, where she falls in love with the mysterious employer Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester, her time at the Moor House, during which her earnest but cold clergyman cousin St. John Rivers proposes to her; ultimately leads to her reunion with and marriage to her beloved Mr. Rochester.
•	The Red Room of the Gateshead Hall is symbolic of the ambiguous relationship that exists between the parents and children which plays out in all of Jane’s relationships with male figures throughout the novel.

•	Bessy and the apothecary Mr. Lloyds were Jane’s amicable acquaintances at Gateshead Hall.
•	Mrs. Sarah Reeds beseeches the aid of Mr. Brocklehurst in enrolling Jane Eyre to Lowood Institution, a charity school for girls.
•	Jane blames that Mrs. Sarah Reeds and Eliza as well as Georgiana were the ones who had been deceitful in unacknowledged of the dying wish of late Mr. Reeds.
•	Helen Burns’ poor stance and dirty nails exposes her to harsh lashing at Lowood institution.

•	Miss Temple, the kind hearted woman superintendent facilitates Jane’s self-defense and vindicates her any wrongdoing.
•	The 80 pupils of Lowood were subjected to poor meals, thin clothing and cold rooms.
•	Many students fall ill when a typhus epidemic strikes; Helen Burns dies of consumption in Jane’s arms. 

•	When Mr. Brocklehurst’s maltreatment of the students is discovered, several benefactors erect a new building and formulate a sympathetic management committee.
•	Alice Fairfax provides feedback to Jane’s advertisement in the newspaper offering services as a governess.
•	Jane is recruited to be the mentor and governess of the French beau Adele Varens.

•	Jane was carrying a letter to the post from Thornfield Hall and encounters Edward Fairfax Rochester—-the master of Thornfield Hall dismounted by his galloping horse fallen over a iceberg.
•	Despite Mr. Rochester’s strange behaviour, they revelry in the merriment of the Eden of Thornfield together embellishing evening….
•	Eccentric and peculiar phenomena coincide at Thornfield Hall with the hysteric maniacal laughter and hilarity of the locked chamber’s mystery, a blazing flame in Rochester’s bed-chamber and Mr. Mason’s fallen victim to violence.

•	Mr. Rochester returns with Blanche Ingram, the heartless and snobbish maiden.
•	Mrs. Sarah Reeds’ stroke summons Jane and she receives letter from Mr. John Eyre in which he implores Jane to reside with him and be his heiress.
•	Jane is skeptical of Mr. Rochester’s haughtiness in wooing her to betrothed her and aftermath of both the lover’s confession; the former writes letter to her uncle stating the proposal of wedding.

•	A strange woman intrudes Jane’s bedchamber and rips the wedding veil into two foreshadowing impossibility of marriage by the harrowing grotesquery. Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester cloaks the clandestine mystery to be the work of Grace Poole.
•	The Lawyer and Mr. Mason dispels the prospects the wedding revealing the fact of Mr. Rochester’s betrothal to Bertha Mason.
•	When Grace Poole gets drunk, Mrs. Bertha descends to congenital madness and causes the strange happenings at Thornfield Hall.

•	Jane is tempted and realizes that she will wreck her integrity if she privileges her desires and passions for the sake of a married man; she must stay a virgin in following Christianity.
•	Jane accidentally leaves possessions on the coach and forced to sleep on the moors. She unsuccessfully attempts to trade her gloves and handkerchief for food.

•	Exhausted and starving Jane eventually makes her way to the home of Diana and Mary but is turned away by the housekeeper. 
•	Clergyman St. John admits Jane to the home of Diana and Mary and encourages her livelihood with a new employment at a local school.
•	St John astounds Jane by telling her of her uncle John Eyre’s death, who left behind a legacy of UK pounds 20000.
•	Professing marriage confession to the pious and conscientious Jane, St. John Rivers implores Jane to be a missionary’s wife and travel to India.

•	Jane Eyre learns of Mrs. Alice Fairfax’s retirement and Adele Varens’ schooling a few months following her departure’s aftermath.
•	Mr. Rochester lost a eyesight and a hand in attempting to rescue the householders from the blazing flame that Mrs. Rochester inflicted by sabotage. 
•	Jane asserts herself financially independent and promises never to forlorn Mr. Rochester. /”Am I hideous, Jane?”…”You, always were, you know.”/

•	/”To be together for us is to be at once as free as in solitude and as gay as in company…we are precisely suited in character—-the perfect concord is the result.” They live blissfully in an old house in the weeds called Ferndean Manor; they are visited by relations such as Diana and Mary with their newly wedded husbands; St. John Rivers archives salvation by sacrificing his life in the ailments of the colonial epidemics; and the couple stay in touch with Adele Varens eventually.    
   
Blinded and crippled Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester cannot believe that Jane Eyre had returned to the Ferndean Manor. His suspicion and incredulousness is[D1]  symbolic of the abrupt movement and mannerism: quickened gesture, he demanded, distressing attempt, he ordered, imperiously and aloud: “What is it? Who is it? Who speaks?”——These monosyllabic questions further creates tensions and suspense clinging to the mysterious incarnation of Jane Eyre.

Rochester hyperbolizes that his heart will stop and brain burst and this helplessness and the awful circumstances is conveyed by the verbs groping and wandering. The frustration of blindness is enhanced by the exclaimed speech, “Oh! I cannot see.” In this sense, figment of imagination pervades the scene as evidenced by alliterative diction: “Great God!” emphasizes his disbelief, believing that he has gone mad in daring to think that Jane has returned: “what delusion!” “sweet madness”. Finally he touches Jane’s hands and exclaims with delight that ‘This is her shape——this is her size’—–nonetheless the use of dashes and repeated phrases further illustrates her incredulity: “Her very fingers…her small slight fingers”.  

Perhaps a figment of his imagination or the supernatural presence: ‘in the flesh?’ ‘My living Jane?’ ‘is it a dream?’….
 He’s [Edward Rochester] every woman’s fantasy man. He has a threatening past, and seems untameable, but in the end, is tamed by a girl [Jane Eyre] who makes his pain go away. 

Here are the major and minor characters who feel unhappy, miserable, depressed or nihilistic at certain extent in the novel:
Jane Eyre is exploited and manipulated by her ambivalent and roguish cousins including Georgiana and John that she eventually becomes fiery tempered to outwit and overthrow tyrannical Gateshead Hall; by throwing to hit her inimical brother with the book.
Even in Lowood Charity institute for orphaned girls, she dissociates herself from the association of Mr. Brocklehurst for being nefarious brute towards her. Helen Burns’ tragic death from typhus is striking in the poignancy of pathos throughout the educative and reformative years.

Thornfield becomes questioned as the graveyard or burial ground of her fanciful imagination in achieving romantic desires while courting her master Edward Fairfax Rochester. Jane Eyre becomes despondent by the intrusive appearance of Blanche Ingram, who has become the inevitable thorn exposing her to mortification and petrification.
Adele Varens' being sent to boarding school and Mrs. Alice Fairfax’s retirement are furthermore glossed as unfavourable for her sustenance in acquaintanceship. Jane eventually throws herself into extreme poverty and inhumane destitution wandering recluse in the moors with coaches and walks.

Jane’s wedding with Rochester are symbolic auguries in the multiplicity of narrative perspectives as envisioned in the foreshadowing of Bertha Mason’s lunacy to tear away the wedding attire. Mrs. Alice Fairfax’s forewarning reveals mysterious past since she is aware of Edward’s sullen gloominess concealed in the Thornfield Hall: “I do fear there will be something found to be different to which either you or I expect.” Bertha Mason’s brother heralding the solicitor Briggs in proving the witness to testify Edward Rochester’s unfortunate marriage to Bertha Mason.

Saint John River’s melancholic death in the missionary abroad is symbolic testimony to Christ’s crucifixion and Jane Eyre’s rejection of him renders pitifulness ambience.

FOR THE FOUR FACES OF FORGOTTEN 

Slides in oblique minutes 
the flash judged on the freedom tangent. 

My supplicating abysses scatter prayers 
inaugurating the sentence of the marked hour 
in the asylums of selfishness. 

The word commits suicide about the inverted angle of waiting, 
and in the orphanhood of darkness 
I can't dream of it... 

Oval blow on slope 
twists in a confusing circuit 
the truths of the cell laid bare 
that dissonants hang on the four sides of oblivion. 

Suspended in the unknown of Peace 
I seek to find protection in the sphere of "I have never been" 

Standing again... 
and again in scream... 
for the unrepeatable assumption. 

From giving birth to so many delusions, 
my instant scratched the shadowed skin of infinity.


VERTICAL RENAISSANCE
 
Vertical silence takes refuge in its rustic emptiness. 
Ride aimlessly on the inaudible memory of multiple broken voices
that are dying of light in irreverent mourning. 

In just moments, 
the memoryless raven releases from his beak 
the fierce breath of oblivion with death.
 
With the hands of a wounded bird, 
she attends the rehearsal of her own shipwreck, 
and he is a faceless witness of truths that are silent in the womb of life.
 
She has been condemned hard, for not having known how to measure time according to her! 

in concession, 
a tear sheds its skin, 
finally laying down the chains that vulnerably bound 
the last original cry, retained in the mysteries of origin. 

Today silence is reborn vertically 
and recovers its center of existence, 
and although it bears the name of cornered drop, 
seeks to restore new dead words. 


Argentine writer and poet. She has an extensive career.. Three Honoris Causa Doctorates in “Literature and Culture of Peace.” Pte. UNAccc, (Commission of Peace, Justice and Solid Institutions for South America and Argentina Chapter / Commission of Peace, Art and Culture for Mil Mentes por México in Argentina). Former Teacher. Workshop worker. International Cultural Manager. Lic. in Mediation. Ambassador for Peace of several organizations. Honorable Member of the World Hispanic Union of Writers, UHE and World Academy of Literature, History, Art and Culture. 13 books published. Multi - National and International Award Winner.

Lost Interest in Love

Can you distinguish the smell from the flower?
Can you change the colour of dream?
Can you return my love, can't you?
How can you separate us?
Hear the restless cry of the sea, 
 The ceaseless waiting of the mountain, 
And the tireless turning of the clock.
The lamentation of the traveler's suffering is in my eyes
Your separation from me is like the wind
Like passing time
Walk barefoot and see the happiness of the path
The language of pain will be lost in the essence of misery
Yet the feeling will not pass us by
 we would have separation If we were art
 that would fall from a child's hand and break
Every time you go away, 
Every time we meet in flocks, 
Every time we utter a word, 
Every time we go wild, harvest virtue.
I will be the flower of the universe
Don't be afraid if the sun falls asleep.
Your sun combined with mine will shine in the bottomless pit of infinite darkness
Won't you be the sun of darkness?