Victor Hugo is still marching today,his eyes on his thoughts, his thoughts
on his child, his little girl, I still hear him
whispering to her - I cannot stay away,
I know you are waiting – Je ne peux
demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps -
just as Maria Branwell Bronte is still on her
way with her little family, especially my
favourites, Charlotte, Anne and Emily,
to Haworth Parsonage, and Charlotte
is still sitting alone while writing her book
Shirley, Marie DuPlessis is still caught in
a pointless existence with her only son
given up for adoption – every time I read
these sad descriptions, the events are
re-enacted again, the people relive their
feelings and pain; the only way to keep
from bursting into tears, is to close
the book…
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