by Walter William Safar
While the northern winds whispers about its thousand years
Of wandering and solitude,
I look at the yellow cone of light
Shyly peeking through the courtroom's window,
As if that heavenly messenger of light
Is afraid to enter a courtroom,
Where justice arrives timidly,
Like a homeless man into a soup kitchen.
An old woman stands outside the window,
In an old-fashioned black dress.
There is nothing light on that old dress,
Apart from a white butterfly,
An old bended broche,
As if squeezed by poverty's invisible fist.
Still, the old woman wears it with unusual pride,
As if it is some timeless lawyer of honor and integrity.
How many wishes and hopes pass the unfortunate old woman's thoughts,
While she helplessly stand there,
Waiting for justice?...
I wonder where her thoughts are traveling,
Which soul in heaven they are touching?
Her mother's soul?...
Her father's soul?...
Her brother's and sister's?
Because souls are like butterflies,
Crawling the ground along with people,
Only to eventually rise to the skies,
Perfectly free and magically shining.
And while the old woman listens to the wind's whisper,
She is humbly looking at the courtroom door,
Waiting for someone to notice her,
But all that this court can see is power, glory, and money,
Tycoons, devil's advocates and politicians
Around the judges' feet.
And the old woman still stands outside the courtroom window
That squeaks like the bones of a dying old man,
And patiently, like a genuine commoner,
She waits for the clerk to have mercy on her,
To take her into the courtroom for her unattainable justice.
Oh Lord, why is that unfortunate, unknown old woman
So dear to my heart?
Perhaps it's because the heart is too lyrical?...
Or because, in her dignified eyes,
I can see my own reflection?...
And perhaps her mother's soul
Is hovering above the unfortunate woman's head right now,
Chasing her weary spirit to the courtroom for justice;
That justice, that praised justice
That she never received in her long and honorable life.
But the courtroom door is still eerily silent,
Silence... eerie silence...
While the brotherly northern wind is driving shadows
Into the old woman's embrace,
Above her trembling tired head
There is white butterfly spreading its wings,
Shining stripes of light
Along the dark seams of this cold courtroom.
Perhaps this is the reason
Why the sad aged face is looking up
Instead of down,
And why hope is still sparkling
In her tired eyes
(And people say that hopes are younger than solitude).
That dear old woman does not know,
Or does not want to know,
That these doors are lubricated for rich clients only,
For devil's advocated.
Hours... endlessly long hours pass by...
And the poor old woman is still standing on her shaky legs,
Unforgivingly looking at the courtroom door,
Which keeps its eerie silence.
Her old legs might be weak,
But her faith is strong.
But the courtroom door is still silent for her,
And once they come to life
It's too late.
The old woman no longer stands on her shaky legs.
Instead, she is lying on the cold floor
With an unusually happy expression,
As if it was finally time
For the invisible heavenly courtroom's door to open for her.
Last updated June 13, 2015