On The Wings of Hope : Prose

Two slowly travelling figures - a man along with a little boy. Heads of both are raised and sight is directed somewhere highly in the heaves ... A brisk cheerful conversation. Laughter and smiles.

Life is just one corner ahead.

12.04.2011

Of the Princes, who do not exist

One day this will happen.

Your prince on a white horse will once come to you, though you will not hear him. You will not notice him in human crowd, you will not open your doors when he will knock. You will not recognize him and let him enter, for you have not been waiting. True princes always come unexpectedly.

They need no heralds, announcing their arrival. They need no applause. Shouts of approval of others are not required for them. Even horses are necessary no more.

They always come on their own – with years of hard work and constant challenges they got used to rely only on own powers, they learnt to trust themselves. You will not hear them far off on knocking of hoofs of their dashing horses, you will never see them caracoling. They have left white horses far behind of themselves, for without them they can move faster. They have rejected a gilt harness and a well-cared mane, they have refused convenient saddles. Now they always come on their own.

For that reason you will not recognize him, you will pass by.

If they towered proudly over the others on their graceful horses – they would be too appreciable. But they need no applause.

If they raced you on their snow-white horses – you would never forget this short journey together. But they need no dependence on them.

If they have offered you to marry them – you could not refuse. But they want to see others being free.

They denied this greatness. The stepped down from their horses. They became small princes.

And with time they got lost in a big crowd.

That is why you will not recognize him, for you have not known him. For you knew only big princes – too big to once become small ones. That is why you always look above your head, hoping to see big ones and never noticing the small. They became useless.

And still they come. And still they continue to knock on the door of yours, knowing that those doors will not be opened – for there is nobody inside to do it anymore.

And still they hope that one day, lots of years after, you will remember that quiet knock you have heard so long ago, countless days before, but chosen not to open the door, for the unexpected visitor came in thunder-storm and you were too afraid to presoak your feet. Yes, you will remember it once – and smile, having understood, what sort of traveller was on the road.

Seldom, very seldom they come to those who could open the doors - but doors still stand closed – for there is no one to open them from the inside.

They have not died out. They have not vanished.

It is you who have killed your princes.

29.09.2010

Sign of the Way

Dirt. Slush. Dampness. Decay’s smell. Water, dripping from a ceiling.

It used to be here so for a time being. No one was ever going to fix this cellar, and it was unimportant for inhabitants of this house - totally and irreversibly. They, too, were unimportant for those tenants, not to anyone, not to anybody.

Only few ones aided them, responded to their requests ... immensely simple requests, so easy for these rich tenants.  To give some money - as little as they can, as much as impossible. To bring a small piece of bread - for they were starving to the death.

Practically nobody ever helped. So few ones.

Why? Why? Why?

What an immense amount of boldness was required for them in order to address someone! To plead for help in the condition, in which they were for now, to stand against a gaze, full of hatred and contempt.

What for did men despise them? For, when their father died and mother passed away from this world as well, having choked in some furious illness, for, when this has happened, government expropriated their apartment from them - so totally young, and since then they have been doomed to wander through court yards and cellars, by hook or by crook finding even a single piece of bread? Stealing so seldom, so much often - just to beg. To plead for help, for aid with something - what can be given, can be spared. They were left with a last possibility of survival - a sincere human request, addressing hearts of men ... But almost no one ever dared to help.

Once again they gathered here today, in a stuffy and dirty cellar - best option, which they have managed to find during last months. Gathered to discuss results of the day - to share what it was possible to find with each other. If it was possible, that’s it.

They didn’t conceal anything from each other, didn’t hide, referring to adverse circumstances - shared all they have managed to get. They, who have been struggling against such deprivations, had no knowledge of contempt and egoism, they aided one another ... They - two brothers and a sister. Two sixteen-year old teenagers and fourteen-year girl.