A Stranger With A Briefcase

Athwart a thousand seas, across a million lands…
Decades later, or perhaps before…
A stranger with a briefcase, stands.

A man, a work of art!
A masterpiece, so beautiful… for nothing could compare.
For many, forever, he remained an unanswered prayer.

If I may put it into words somehow,
He is Da Vinci's Mona Lisa…
Shah Jahan's Taj Mahal
A priceless piece, the Artists pride…

Many argued, cried and wondered..
How is it fair?
One man, whom the whole world couldn't afford to buy?
Meanwhile other men, of pennies… are too shy.

People tried to degrade him, to tear him down,
To rob him of value, to leave a mark…
A scar or perhaps a tear…
They brought their erasers… and tried to erase.
Alas, all in vain.
The man wasn't drawn by the tip of a pencil,
in stone he was engraved.
It was their own erasers,
With time they destroyed…
Their own hands by His sharp edges they cut.
Their own hearts, they slowly tore apart.

I've watched them with pity…
I observed it all…
I've seen the scars, I witnessed the blood.
I've heard the torn hearts…
but, they wrapped their wounds, dried their tears,
And back they went, for more.
Crashing their bodies against the sharpest of rocks.

Blinded by jealousy… these fools never realized,
it was their own blood, and their own scars…
For goodness sake! It was their own ripped skin!
The Artist delicately dipped His brushes in…

With every futile stab… and every senseless hit..
The Artist painted strength, integrity, character, and poise.

The concept was amusing, I must say.
I watched it from afar.


I heard him speak, and my heart shuddered.
All the music in the world bowed in shame….
Every song and every noise,
For it was hideous in comparison to this voice…

The distance gnawed at my heart,
I came up close.. I met his eyes…
The sky appeared dull next to those eyes.


They were glazed with a thin sheet of melancholy..
A gentle sadness, they portrayed.
A loneliness… an almost defeated gaze…
Like a swan, who's lost his mate….
He smiled, but it was masked.
I knew.

It was then, I understood.
Perfection does not speak the language of Error, and
William Shakespeare will never kiss the hand of Jane Austen…

A stranger.
He was misplaced.
I wanted to reach out, to touch his hand….
To comfort him somehow,
And as I did… my hand sliced the thin air.

In front of me a vision of Perfection.
Was a stranger, a million lands away.

At his feet an open briefcase, of broken hearts and shattered flesh…
I kneeled down, and gently placed my own heart amongst the rest.

'You don't belong here, go, find your place..
For your language is unknown here, a fish won't survive among the birds, and a swan will never find comfort among vultures'

I watched him go...

Athwart a thousand seas, across a million lands…
Decades later, or perhaps before…
A stranger with a briefcase, stands.

by Inna Kibitskaya

Comments (1)

interesting story, who is the stranger?