MEMORIES OF EPIPHANIES

Jorge Manrique London Fogs

England doesn't believe in the three magic kings, there is no epiphany but the wise men from the east were riding their camels in Trafalgar square at midnight of the new years eve 1971. I was driving my mini and  I was kissing strangers near the fountain by Nelson statue, while the stone lions were playing Neptune buzzing cascades of wáter and blowing winds from the North.

There was freezing and I arrived home late, presenting my apologies to father in law. Mr.

Hugh hang the mistletoe crown announcing felicity and I was late and did not know the rules. Helen was sleeping inside her crib with baby Jesus and there was peace and quiet those days. The memories are back time and again.

I was an Spaniard in the court of King Arthur deluded by illusion and thinking big, and I did not know what to do, well I jus wanted to be a freelancer. The trodden days and vulgar experience thrashed away the cobwebs and the windmills of mind kept rolling without purpose.

Thanks God I survived the London fogs, whilst I stay put myself, holding the light of Diogenes in the cavern smoking cigars drinking tea perusing  manuals and revising old albums and post cards.  

Letters were written never reaching the other end. My life was the message of the bottle in the middle of the Ocean.

 My mom burdened a heap of epistles of love to the London Fogs with cruel hand but the messages always return with the acid saturnalia  of Christmas of my life, time and again, dragged alone with water of that river called The Thames of Oblivion.

Remember thou, sleeping soul, vivify your mind, awake contemplating how time pass, how death comes on tiptoe, how The Quiet One that does not forgive anyone reaps her harvest, quick the pleasure goes, think about; once retrieved, causes pain. Think about and methinks how were better the good old days than those we are living now.

The London fogs yield recollections of you little Helen sleeping in your cradle of Hornchurch now a woman of 43 thanks God and tonight I can hear your voice  sounding and dreaming on the harp of Jorge Manrique, the great Castilian poet, pilfering sins abrogation, and repentances of Time Past.

I can feel the emptiness of Trafalgar square and the top hat of that reveler  that the wind blew to the River Thames. I feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for all but I understand the world and its forgiveness. No, England is neither a believer in Father Christmas nor in the cavalcade of the Three Wise Men of the East riding their camels by my door every year.