By Yasen Vedrin
(Freezing Point)
Invented by Hugo’s immortal pen,
Within a story, holy and sublime,
I see you in your final weight again,
While ice has locked the earth in frozen time.
I am no radical of extreme thought,
Yet full of pure illusions, brotherhood.
By day I trudge through sticky mud, distraught,
Of mutiny, shame, sins against the good.
Your spirit comes to visit my own heart,
Your deep and harmless essence, so profound.
To stay deaf in the gale, to do my part,
Against the snakelike whispers spinning round.
Above a cup of soup with some gray wretch,
To read Christ’s holy words and contemplate.
To meet Gavroche before my door, and stretch
The Love of loves to shield him from his fate.
To leave a mark behind. A trace, a sign.
In hearts and minds. In palms and eyes awake.
So that the evil falls in floods, divine,
With iron handcuffs locked for his own sake.
And this, my friend Valjean, is where I stand,
My final, holy barricade and turn —
By evil of this world, unchecked, untamed,
Upon my fateful bonfire to burn...
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