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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=459689" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ikon</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The door creaks, as she opens it <br>and the fall of the heavy iron latch <br>echoes through the empty church. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The atmosphere inside, this cold day, <br>is heavy, as such holy places are, <br>locked now at night; heavy, <br>with what? Anticipation? Memory, <br>of all the human emotions <br>that have passed through them? <br>There’s still the clinging promise, <br>the fragrance of yesterday’s incense; <br>it could almost be a midnight forest <br>in its wood-scented mystery. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She lights a candle, drops a coin <br>slowly, as those do to whom <br>each coin has a meaning. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She is small, shrunken as the aged are, <br>wrapped into roundness against the cold, <br>yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose <br>about her walk towards the glittering <br>gold ikonostasis – </div><div style="margin:10px 0">is it the anniversary of the day <br>her husband perished in the labour camp? <br>Or the day her son died fighting <br>so that such as she might live, <br>to mourn him, proudly, all her life? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous <br>junior lecturer who lost her job <br>for speaking truth, whose students <br>carried her shoulder-high and placed her <br>on the tank outside the university, <br>challenging its gun? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She kneels in front of the ancient ikon, <br>framed in gold; the ikon that tourists <br>note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted, <br>it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it <br>‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She looks intently into its eyes <br>as she has so many times; each time, <br>a new day, asking what He has in store for her. <br>As intently as its painter, praying as he worked, <br>that He might come and fill the painted form <br>with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth <br>from That which sent Him… </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She looks into the eyes of the ikon – <br>or does the ikon look at her? <br>In some other world, there is mighty sound, <br>perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness; <br>there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow <br>like grace itself; new earth is watered. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sees, in some great where between <br>herself and all things, love that cannot be measured; <br>mercy that can only explain itself with itself; <br>grace that’s only known; her life <br>opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly; <br>all is revealed to the seeking heart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The candles flicker; the door creaks, <br>and the heavy iron latch echoes <br>once, in the empty church; the Son of Man, <br>in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold, <br>steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes; <br>a pale winter sun. But look into her eyes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[revised]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=459689" data-title="Ikon de Michael Shepherd" data-description="The door creaks, as she opens it 
and the fall of the heavy iron latch 
echoes through the empty church. 

The atmosphere inside, this cold day, 
is heavy, as such holy places are, 
locked now at night; heavy, 
with what? Anticipation? Memory, 
of..."></div>
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