The Good Mother 1988

The slums resounded, full of sound,

The forest groaned and rang around,

So that, so that,

The hunter's spear would strike the beast down flat!

Deer, oh deer, why bear so bold

A love's word in your antlers' hold?

The arrow's copper on your flank,

And the aim was sure, no need to thank!

Now your legs will break, you'll fall to earth,

And death will greet you with clear mirth,

And horses whisper, full of grace:

"We do not carry slender race!"

In vain you sought, with youthful charms,

To flee defeat with beauty's arms,

And with your spear, you tried to flee

The hunter's strike that sought to be!

The horse's breath now draws so near,

Your antlers hang, you feel the fear,

And with a tremble, bowstrings snap -

No hope for you, the hunter's trap!

But suddenly, a lion's mane,

A claw as sharp as endless pain,

And with a playful, careless jest,

He showed THE ART OF TOUCHING BEST!!!

No cry, no shout, no bitter strife,

They lie in graves, the end of life,

While he, with ruler's proud command,

Beheld the slaves who kissed the sand...

The train, climbing the steep slope, creaked heavily on its rails, as if the earth itself resisted its movement. Kicking up a cloud of dust, its black sidewalls cast brief shadows on the dull morning. The outside world was tossing in the grey light - trees, like blurred silhouettes, flickered in the window, and the sun's rays, already tired from their morning struggle with the fog, pierced them, dividing them into stripes of light and shadow. The clatter of the wheels sounded not just like the sound of a mechanism, but like a wheezing breath, more frequent and insistent with each revolution.

The man in the white suit moved with astonishing speed, not noticing how his elegant attire, slightly fluttering, was soiled with dust. The lightness of his steps did not hide his inner readiness for any unexpected turn of events. He was beyond panic, held back only by a cruel determination. His face remained imperturbable, as if he were a stranger to the storm that raged around him, but there was tension in his eyes, like a stone about to slide into the water.

In the distance, on dark horses, the gendarmes were not far behind. Their cries, sharp and commanding, echoed in the air, but they only scattered their efforts, trying to catch up with the fugitive. The young officer in the dark uniform quickened his steps, not taking his eyes off the rushing train. He jerked the reins, forcing the horse to rise up, preparing for a dash. A sabre flashed in his hand, glittering in the dim light. A signal to the engineer - he must slow down, take a step back. But the train, like an iron shadow, did not slow down.

The man, sensing the proximity of pursuit, did not hesitate. He pierced the nearest carriage with his gaze, his consciousness clearly drawing the trajectory of salvation. Stopping at the doors, he lifted his leg in one movement, without losing a second, and slid into the aisle, merging with the moving mass.

An old man sat at a small table, right by the window. His grey hair, gathered in a careless bun, as well as the deep wrinkles that cut through his face, betrayed the years from which the traces of time could not be washed away. However, in his gaze there was none of the heavy despair that usually accompanies old age. On the contrary, the old man's eyes - hidden behind narrow glasses - were attentive, tenacious, as if he could recognize any hidden trace, any unnecessary sound. In his hands he held a newspaper, but, apparently, it was only a cover. Leafing through the pages, he did not read, but rather caught the rhythm of the world in which he was immersed.

The man, without saying a word, pressed himself carefully against the doorway and raised his hand almost imperceptibly, making a sign for silence. He was too tired to speak. His hands trembled slightly, but not from fear - it was the physical strain that had worn him out over the past few hours. He entered and, without losing a moment, sat down opposite the old man, leaning back on the soft back of the seat, trying to hide his relief. It was temporary, but obvious, like breathing after a long run. His chest rose and fell slowly, and several times he involuntarily hunched his shoulders, releasing the pain in his back.

The old man did not move, did not look up from his newspaper, but his face remained completely calm, as if this man, with his pale face and white suit, barely hiding the streaks of dirt, was not on the run at all. As if a stranger, obviously frightened and obviously pursued, had never entered this carriage. He continued to read, or at least pretended to read, but his gaze did not leave those distant, hidden horizons that he himself saw.

The man studied the old man, as if trying to find a reflection of his own thoughts in his face. His gaze became insistent, almost X-ray-like, penetrating this silent world created by the old man. He did not know what exactly he was looking for, but the feeling was familiar, as if something important was about to be revealed in these moments of silence. And yet the old man remained as indifferent as he had been from the very beginning.

When the man finally felt that he would gain nothing from this silence, he let out a quiet breath and, turning his head to the window, watched the trees flashing past the glass. The forest seemed to swallow everything around, its dark, intertwined branches merging with the dark sky, and only rare patches of snow, like torn rags, interrupted this impenetrable darkness. For a moment, his thoughts became foggy, like the world outside the window.

Suddenly, a flash of light flashed in front of the glass. A light butterfly, despite the piercing wind and the cold morning light, gracefully circled in front of the window. It seemed to dance with the reflection, shimmering with soft wings, almost weightless in its fragility. The man smiled reluctantly, and his face, which had seemed carved from stone, weakened for a moment, losing its sharpness.

"Delia Eucharis," he said, as if cutting off his own thought. There was no anxiety or tension in his voice, only a detached calm, like that of a man accustomed to speaking of something important and profound. "The one and only, she calls us."

The old man, still absorbed in his newspaper, bowed his head slightly and finally took his eyes off the paper, as if he had just now noticed the stranger's presence. He put it down without showing the slightest surprise and looked over his glasses, glancing at the man with a slight, almost lazy interest.

"Who calls?" he asked, his voice slow and controlled, as if each word required time to be considered.

The man, without taking his eyes off the window, continued to watch the butterfly, which had already disappeared beyond the horizon of the forest. He was in no hurry to answer, as if its presence still hovered in the air, like a ghostly trace.

"Time," he said, and there was a deeper note in his voice, as if the words had weight in this moment. "Time, in the person of this butterfly, calls to us," he added, slowly crossing his arms over his chest. "We live in an era that will be studied."

The old man frowned, but did not interrupt. The man continued, as if he no longer noticed his interlocutor, as if he were talking to himself:

"Decades will pass. People will think about us and argue about us. Of course, various opinions will arise, but for the most part," he bowed his head slightly, and something close to dreaminess appeared in his eyes, "future young people, I hope, will treat us with sympathy."

The old man was silent, struck by the strangeness and depth of this speech. The man finally turned to him, his gaze direct, but somehow distant.

"Do you agree?"

The old man blinked, taken aback by this unexpected question, and nodded in confusion. The man smiled faintly and was about to look out the window again, when suddenly there was a loud and insistent knock on the door, breaking the strange silence that had settled between the passengers of the compartment. The old man shuddered, reached for his glasses, as if he wanted to take them off, but the man in white got ahead of him. He straightened up and asked in a commanding voice, turning his head slightly towards the door:

"What's the matter?"

A hoarse voice came from outside, too confident and clearly accustomed to orders:

"Checking documents. Open up!"

The man closed his eyes for a second, as if thinking over a plan, and then, without losing his composure, calmly said:

"Excuse me, but let the lady get dressed!"

The old man squinted and looked at him in bewilderment.

"Uh... a lady?" he asked in surprise, looking at the empty compartment, in which there was no one except the two of them.

The man smiled faintly and rose from his seat. He walked over to the window and grabbed the frame firmly, but before opening it, he spoke again - this time not so much to the old man as to himself.

"Let's not hide it, there were mistakes," he said quietly, but with obvious bitterness in his voice. "Who can argue with that? Making noise, taking risks, jumping out of windows - all of this, you must admit, is reckless."

The old man looked at him with growing surprise, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead.

"But what else was there to do?" the man continued. "We simply had no choice. We lived as best we could."

The window frame creaked open. A blast of cold air rushed into the compartment, and the train was suddenly filled with the sound of iron and distant shouts. The man froze for a moment, his gaze sliding over the old man's face.

"I hope they understand us," he added quietly.

"Who are 'they'?" the old man breathed out, but the man was no longer listening to him.

"I have honor," he said briefly, jerking the frame sharply.

Without wasting a second, the man jumped out of the window. The old man jumped up in horror, ran to the open window and looked out. A dark figure flashed through the glass, rolling on the wet grass, while the train rapidly moved forward, leaving the man behind, among the trees stretching to the sky.

The next second, the compartment door swung open with a bang, and three gendarmes entered. They looked impressive - their white jackets shone against the dark interior of the carriage, their lacquered caps glittered on their heads, and their well-groomed moustaches emphasized their severity. The oldest of them stood in front, with a square face and a keen gaze.

He looked around the compartment, noticing only the old man and his folded newspaper.

"Where is your lady?" he asked sharply, narrowing his eyes.

The old man froze, staring at him in bewilderment, as if the gendarme's words had not immediately reached his consciousness.

"The lady..." he muttered, desperately sorting through his thoughts. Then, waving his hand towards the window, he blurted out: "She jumped out!"

The gendarme perked up, his moustache twitched, and his eyes narrowed even more.

"Who jumped?" he asked, his voice laced with wit.

The old man, still stunned, turned to the window. The forest beyond stretched like a thick wall, dissolving in the gray winter light. The old man looked out the window for a long time, his wrinkled face expressing deep thoughtfulness.

And suddenly his gaze stopped. There, behind the glass, something light and graceful flashed - a bright spot in the gloomy landscape. A butterfly.

The old man slowly turned to the gendarme, a strange delight lit up his eyes. The words flew from his lips as if by themselves:

"Delia Eucharis... the one and only."

The gendarmes looked at each other, confused and silent. But the old man said nothing more, continuing to look out the window with an expression of complete absorption.