| Shackels and the Iron Door - The Price -
30th June 2009
Shackels and the Iron Door - The Price
A yellow fading face with dark circles under her eyes from heavy falling tears and incremental sorrow of a breathtaking creature broken into pieces by the cruel streak of time.
The amorphic shakles fall in the lock, hands hold her shackled hands, dignity and pride burst swimming on the dirty floor of reality - Truth has a high price.
Although she always dreamt of naked "Justicia" embodied in the mechanism, the iron door was swept behind her leaving the echo vaccuum.
Prison in Lebanon.
Mouldy bed, a mattress on a wooden beam, emptiness in a dark room of a 5 stars hotel of a country which lost its senses and the meaning of righteousness.
A gigant was being destroyed, they thought.
But she, she defied the fate just to be the jailed and relish mortification of a gargantuan truth. Didn't Socrates pay with the cicuta virosa? Didn't Jesus Christ pay with the cross to Golgotha? Why can't a God made creature challenge the ailment historians depicted?
Creatures apotheozise Gods but cannot reach them, would the understanding of justice and the messenger of truth fear shackles?
Throughout the investigation, not this calling and dismissing, nor the set mines meant to explode and tear her into pieces, nor the dispiteous accusations and finger pointing could bring her to her knees. A morbid power erupted under the pressure of heavy incrimination crashing all dark eyes of a nameless face.
A crime, they searched for a crime, any crime, they didn't find anything, so they decided to create a crime. Her crime was to dare. No one should dare. Her crime was the word, and the word reflected the mixture of a rainbow in a dark hole.
Her crime, what was her crime? Her crime was the passion for knowledge in a world where sequences of ratios kneeled for the God Moloch.
Shackles of freedom... coarse voice from a long day but clearer and louder than the symphony of life. An iron door toward peace in a world living in the shadow.
To be continued. |