|
|
|
Transformation
|
|
|
| A darkened room, |
| Dimly lit |
| with one small candle, |
| A slight stirring of silk. |
| A tiny
whisper of steel.
|
| I gently pull them off the wall |
| and pause. |
| The softness of the cloth |
| in one hand, |
| The coldness of metal in the other |
| at once beckons |
| and
repels.
|
| The transformation begins. |
| What is this thing I am doing? |
| Who am I to judge? |
| Why this journey into danger? |
| Where will
it take me?
|
| I am easing the pain of my people, |
| my friends, my neighbors. |
| Judging? No! Never! |
| That belongs to God. |
| I am only
his instrument.
|
| Danger? |
| The only danger is complacency. |
| Let me die fighting it if need be. |
| But let me live to see justice, |
| mercy and
peace, if I can.
|
| The brocade is laying across a chair. |
| The fancy leather boots next to it. |
| The sword of my conscience is at my side. |
| The mask feels soft |
| and heavy
as I place it over my face.
|
| I sigh. |
| Give me wisdom this night as I ride. |
| Grant me temperance against enemies I fight. |
| Let the world be better tomorrow |
| for my
efforts.
|
| January, 2000 |
