The messenger

So softly, so quietly, so gently

the messenger glides , mercifully

to his destination. The letter wrapped

in white ribbon, sits against his chest.

Protected from the oncoming blizzard.


Against the winds he pushes, again

and again his thin feet fall against the

snow, with a small crunch, it encircles his boots

which are worn away with indefinite age.

He must get there on time. He must ,

he tells himself again. He must. Or else.

With his boney fingers he traces the circular

wounds upon his stomach and back.

Another bullet, another hole, another


But the winds are so cold, so bitterly

painful. If only he could rest. For a

second, just for a moment, that is all.

The gale whistles louder and the

messenger falls to his knees.

If only he could look at the letter.

One small peak. One explanation

for this wild, unpredictable journey.

Then, however , he remembers.

His master is not one to argue with.

But why is he always so lonely?

The messenger so wished he could

have company on his many missions.

And, why, most of all, when people

meet him and he hands over his message.

Why are they so cruel? He tries to say

it is his job, but almost nobody listens.There

are some though, some exceptions, they

speak softly to him.

“I’ve been waiting,’ They say to him.

They take his hand and the letter

with so much care. It were as if

they had been waiting all there

life for him.

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