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.