Light to the World

Through the lanes of our village An old woman walked home from worship— Alone. And like the seal of a blessing A smile bloomed in her eyes.

On Sunday, when all the worldly folk Trade, drink and simply make merry— Tapping her walking stick on the asphalt She walked to pray to God.

She went, and He received her As a loving Father, without hesitation. He awaited many on that day with hope, But alas, His expectations were not fulfilled!

And now she looks ahead, With a smile, into worried faces... And hardly anyone among them would understand Why this old woman should be joyful?!

They scorn her, ask nothing, pass by, Will not say: "Where can we find such joy?" They will search for years—and find nothing, Spend their fortunes—all in vain...

Worn through by cares down to their souls, They do not honor the Creator, live as they please. The cruel world conquered them long ago, But with this old woman it could not prevail.

She passed, softly tapping her stick, Slightly stooped with age, Like a candle lit in darkness Among long-since extinguished flames.

A soul undamaged by anything, A truth crippled by nothing... Oh, how beautiful is youth! Oh, how genuine is sincerity within it!

Beauty does not belong to the young, Nor joy of inspiration to singers alone, And often he who runs ahead In others' eyes is barely walking.

Sometimes it happens that one cannot find An answer to very important questions. Yet He stood all the time on your path With a smile in an inconspicuous form.

Bearing in His presence without words Peace to some, conviction to others... Or perhaps it was simply this— The old woman walked home from worship.

*September 2, 1999*

**Do Not Shoot!**

...for our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Eph. 6:12

Over the trenches smoke like cotton, acrid poison... In precise aim a brother catches his blood brother, Above grass half his height it's decided... To miss—why, that's simply out of the question!

In the gray sky crows circle: trouble comes. You stand on opposite sides today, in enmity, Don't hesitate, settle scores, make haste! Only something cries within: "Stop!"

A hand dropped down from the gunstock—a cheek. And over the hills the whistle of bullets, and how! And suddenly, from the other side at an angle, Like a slap—a bullet to the temple, a piece of lead...

Over the trenches smoke like cotton, acrid poison... Guilty or innocent—they lie near each other. And in eyes dimmed by pain the sunset trembles, The defeated left the field, the victor lies dead...

Blood with earth on the edges of his greatcoat, on his boots, In his sight he saw a brother, not an enemy, Between tall grass and thorns he fell backward, Yes, he could have fired first, but chose not to...