Writing between Stories and Letters ✍️Este es otro mundo [ Esp - Eng ]

Greetings dear community of the writing club, I want to thank you for having kindly extended the invitation for this great initiative, which I appreciate and value, as well as congratulate you for this great and creative idea to convene the writers of this platform, so that through their respective content and literary genres, pay tribute and offering to the writers of yesterday and today in the international day of the writer, which is celebrated every March 3.

It is also appropriate the occasion to tell you why I have decided, through this post, to pay a humble and deserved tribute to the great writer, poet and journalist, Edgar Allan Poe (born on January 19, 1809, in Boston, Massachusetts, United States, and died on October 7, 1849, at the age of 40 in Baltimore, Maryland), who, according to the specialized critics of yesterday and today, is one of the greatest exponents of literature; he is an innovator of literary genres: Gothic novel, poetry in prose and verse, short story and creator of the detective story. The work on which this post is inspired, is about his prose poem, The Raven, written in 1845, 4 years before he left for more subtle planes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

It was a cold November night, thunder and lightning sang their most intimate odes while the hours grew damp; after a frugal dinner, I thought it best to go to my library, light the fire in the fireplace, sink my humanity into the black velvet of that very old and soft armchair that I inherited from my ancestors; but first I would give free rein to my wayward hand to take the poem I had been rereading for days; once I finished my reading ritual, I lit the pipe, let the smoke and its aroma embrace me and take me back to the lofty equinoctial regions of the sublime and ethereal.

As I began to read, I let myself be carried away by that river of ink and steeds that chased the elusive words, little by little, the spell of reading was wreaking havoc on all my senses, my eyes stopped sailing in the brave sea of pages of that mysterious collection of poems. I still remember, as if it were yesterday, that poem that changed everything, its enigmatic name always made me curious, I had never read it before, but that rainy night, finally, I could read it in its entirety, I enjoyed every verse, its metaphors took me to other worlds, as well as the symphony of its dialogues; after the reading I fell deeply into a lethargic and thick sleep.

After a long time immersed in the eternity of that dream, I woke up, but not in the armchair where I fell asleep, now I was in the middle of an ancestral cemetery, where the thick mist and the midnight chill made me think I was in another world. Suddenly I heard a loud and deep voice telling me: You are right, this is another world, although I heard perfectly, I could not see who was talking to me, until I overcame my fear, and I could see that 30 meters away from me, and on a tombstone, there was a crow that kept repeating: This is another world; I approached and I could not believe it, the crow was the one who was talking to me.

Despite the icy fear that gripped me, I pulled myself together and asked the crow:

Who are you and why am I here?

He answered me: I am a writer, I am now in the form of a raven in this world, my name is Virgil, in my previous life I was a Roman poet, I have many disciples, among the most prominent is Dante, Beatrice's boyfriend, who are also on this side of the ethereal. You have not yet realized your current form; I understand that everyone who comes here is the same, but calm in a short time you will adapt; as you will see around you, near the tombstones there are black cats, they were voracious readers, so they were given that form because of their curiosity, you will also notice the presence of wolves, they represent the publishers, their form is because they skillfully bit the royalties and copyrights.

I could not understand what was happening, I was paralyzed with that voice of the raven, it had an elegant tone, captivating and at the same time convincing. Then I asked again: "So I am dead? Slowly, he answered me:

Yes, you are dead, but not quite dead; if you see this tombstone on which I am standing, you will be able to observe your name and the day you left the world of appearances, vanity, and ego.

After hearing that bitter news, I asked again: "What do you mean I'm dead, surely I'm in a dream, what happened?

The Raven answered: You were in your armchair reading a copy of the 1st. You were reading a copy of the 1st edition of the poem, The Raven, the same one written by Edgar Allan Poe, who is now the writer who rules these dark places of everything and nothingness, besides being the only author to whom the supreme and divine lord of letters granted him the grace to keep his original form and immortalize him, so that he may continue to inspire from this world the writers who love the literary genre of which he was the best exponent, we are talking of course about the short story, the gothic novel and the detective novel; did you know that it is a mortal crime to read the 1st. You knew that it is a mortal crime to read the first edition of the aforementioned poem and fall asleep; when you finished reading it you died, such was the emotion that those prose verses produced in you, that your tired heart could not stand it, and Poe himself sent me to rescue your soul of writer-reader.

I went into a state of shock with those words of the raven Virgil, I could not help but be perplexed and terrified by what had happened.

I had no qualms about asking him:

Why me, what will I do in this place?

Well, my dear and appreciated bard, you cultivate the habit and sacred craft of writing in poetic prose, we like your poems, you are a voracious reader, plus your muse and your inspiration are always near you; also 3 years ago you lost your wife, so the loneliness and sadness have flooded your soul with pain and suffering; justified reason for you to be among us, so we thought it necessary to rescue you from the fateful moments you were living; as you well know, your partner was a skilled artist with her hands, some time ago, she was passing through these parts, I met her, we talked about everything once, it was then when she told me how sad you were since her departure, so I told the boss, and he talked to her while they shared a cup of coffee, he even asked her to knit him a sweater; In that conversation, he made a commitment that when the time came, you would live here forever, and help us with the hard work we have these days.

Those words made me cry with emotion, they also comforted me to know that I was there through the intercession of my beloved, it was like a shower of blessings that gave me back my calm, and peace returned to me again. But one last question remained. I asked the nice and kind raven. Then I said to him:

Dear master, what will be the job I will perform in this ethereal paradise?

You will be the librarian and guardian of the akashic records of this place, as well as the host along with all of us, you will have to organize and make the preparations for the great party that we will give on March 3, as you well know, that date corresponds to the international writer's day, reason for which we will pay a lavish tribute, offerings, and tributes to all writers, and of course to their respective readers, because without them, there would be no work to do, no stories to tell; that day our great Edgar Allan Poe will give the usual speech; he has asked me earnestly, that you leave your new duties early, because he has a surprise for you, but please do not mention to anyone that I told you about the surprise.

📌
Translated with 
www.DeepL.com/Translator 
(free version)
Notice to the reader
My mother tongue is Spanish,
so please excuse me for any grammatical or syntax errors 
in the translation of this content.

📸 Pngwing #1
 

📸 Freepik #2
 

📸 Pixabay #3 |
 Póster kollwitz
 

Cuervo icono creado por Warangkhana Sookruay - Flaticon