The poor man in court
The observers foresee that
at least once in my life
I will find Justice.
What kind of face will my Justice have..!
How old will it be..!
Its wallet...will it be empty or full..?
I am certain
that the words for my protection
will be borrowed from extinct languages
because for the moment
there is no intelligible dictionary
to protect me.
So as you can see
my justice will be very old.
The experts who will encounter on the road to their
professional advancement as if it were a corpse
will be shaken seeing it.
They will dare look at only the skull
covered will the inscriptions of a life that was lost
where it is said clearly and without self-deception
that along with people the Sun also falled
to shine with that light
that was not worth ceding to mortals...
that the Bygone Chaos of grand depictions
and who knows what wisdom of tangible Gods
would have been given to the figures of the World.
But as for the remainder
the chest..the joints...the spine
from the moment they heard the black tidings
that the Gods of Justice have never been tangible
and driven to despair by the vanity of the World
kept in operation
the body of Hell...there amid the chasms.
In all that concerns expectations...
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poem by Elias Foukis
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