Immaculate, with a kindness impossible to calculate,
Of boundless warmth, both in darkness and in cold.
But I have not visited as of late,
and don’t dare declare it rid of mould.
My sisters, they’ve become the mothers of the house.
Yet they insist solely I can, it’s old hospitality, arouse.
They claim its walls, its halls, its grandiose vaults have withered thin,
So that, in the harshness of weather, it may as well be made of tin.

No I cannot go—but the house has stooped so low! —
I regret but I must stay—then let happen what may!
In that manner they insatiably, earnestly towed,
Poked, and molested, until my reluctance gave way.
It was thus that I assented to leave the comfort of my home,
And, prepared to—in the past—nostalgically roam.
Albeit it was not so: the house’s ancient lights were, to me, pristine chandeliers,
The imposing front door, quite worthy of chevaliers.

The house serviced me humbly, its floor not uttering a creak.
Why, it did not fit at all with my sisters’ sinister speech! —
But, Samuel, it is, only currently, at its peak! —
Even so, no house could, a better state, reach!
Despite the dispute, a formidable seven days I did remain.
I must admit that, now and then, I encountered an odour or a stain;
However, nothing was a grave deal,
As I rejoiced at the singular taste of those home-cooked meals.

I departed with pecks on my cheek, pounds atop my being,
Tranquillity buzzing in my tongue but hard conviction in my spirit;
Never again would I fall for their dishonest beguiling,
Which my perennial house surely did not merit.
Hence I, the immune, read the following letter with nonchalance:
Benign, beloved brother, the house’s roof has come off balance.
So inexplicably, it has slumped with your goodbye.
I felt rather astute to perceive in it a lie.

But, with the proceeding letter, my indifference did wane:
The house is ash, my bountiful brother,
And we would like for you to, at least sadness, feign.
I ripped the hairs from my scalp, like a chicken, feather after feather. 
I prayed for this to be their umpteenth ruse,
Not caring, for once, for my pride to lose.
I rented a car, cursed myself instead of them,
For mistrusting, when they warned that Mother was leaving us men. 

I feared to see the entity that had breathed life between my lips,
To face the mother that I had peeled from my skin,
To confront the woman that I had worn to rips,
To sweep the ashes of her and the joy of my kin.
I, the coward, arrived to watch my sisters mourn amidst the smell of flame.
My foetal home with the humped roof, the doors turned lame…
Now the delicate urn of peppered dust,
And I, the absent son—had I killed her with my ungrateful lust?