I saw her in the morning: fervently she prayed, A grey‑haired woman — an old dear, in a headscarf arrayed. What for?… I do not know for sure, but it seems to me She prayed for a soul so suddenly, by chance, set free. The sparse tear that rolled down Her parched, wrinkled cheek, She hid shyly, quietly, discreetly, In her slightly clenched, weak, trembling fist, so meek. And she muttered something ceaselessly, With her other hand, the edge of her scarf she’d twist… Almost touching her shoulder, standing right behind, An Angel in flames stood close, so kind. Attentively listening to her broken speech, He carefully checked all she’d say, Against the list upon a scroll, which, it seemed, Stretched without end, had no beginning, indeed. And in some things, he clearly agreed with her, On others, he seemed to doubt — and, shaking his head “no”, He moved closer to her, gently, tenderly, Trying to suggest an inaudible, But right — the only answer, you see. His efforts — in vain. They bore no fruit, Not in this life, for her, as yet. She kept talking on and on, chattering fast, But… in silence… she’d better have listened at last In the moment of revelation: herself within herself.
