With the candle in his mouth he began the strange order.
All around him was dark.
He was liberated in the monastery.
He did not forget the Occupied though.
And he seemed besieged himself.
He grabbed the pencil for the draft.
He put his hand on the wood.
It was hot as was the memory.
He had fasted and was now ready.
Besides, he had been convinced by …
He did not dare say his name.
Not even in the monastery,
even though he knew he was alone.
He was that dangerous to barbarism.
He had asked the unthinkable of him.
And now he was thinking of the utopia.
He did not know what to decide.
The candle dripped down.
As if it was crying.
It wasn’t crying though.
It lived for the others.
in order to illuminate the draft.
And when the pencil touched the wood
a miracle happened.
The resurrection of freedom.