A glass, a glance, a grain of salt

The Senator stood at heaven’s gate,
His suit dishevelled; his voice ornate.
He clung to fragments of his pride,
The echoes of applause now long denied.

“St. Peter,” he began, with measured tone,
“Did my speeches shape the cornerstone?
I moved the masses, I made them dream,
Did my life have weight, or just a gleam?”

St. Peter sighed, his gaze both sharp and kind,
“Your legacy lies in what’s left behind.
You sought purpose in grandeur, the crowd’s cheer,
But missed the moments that drew you near.

At a banquet, amidst the clink of glass,
A waiter whispered as he passed:
‘Could you pass that empty glass?’ he said.
You did. That’s all. That’s what you led.”

The Senator stiffened, his pride turned thin,
At the absurdity of where he’d been.
“A glass?” he muttered, his ego frayed,
“My finest act was a waiter’s trade?”

“Precisely,” Peter said with calm refrain,
“For in that act, no power sought gain.
You simply served, without applause,
And that, my friend, fulfilled your cause.

The Strategist, next, stepped forward slow,
His mind a maze of schemes aglow.
“St. Peter,” he said, his voice a rasp,
“Did my blueprints stand, my plans hold fast?

I shaped the gears, I turned the tides,
I wove the threads where fate resides.
Was my life the needle, stitching seams?
Or did it dissolve into fleeting dreams?”

St. Peter’s gaze was sharp and clear,
“The webs you spun will disappear.
For every law, for every pact,
The winds of time undo the act.

Your purpose came in an unseen way,
On a night like any other day.
Amidst your toil, in the office dim,
A colleague asked on a whim:

‘Do you have the time?’ they said, nothing more.
You did. That was your quiet chore.
In that moment, no ledger, no scheme,
Only kindness unseen by the gleam.”

The Strategist blinked, his thoughts askew,
And muttered softly, “Is that true?
Years of plotting, undone by this—
A watch, a glance, a fleeting bliss?

Last came Vladislav, gaunt and pale,
A refugee with a weary tale.
He carried frost from Siberian air,
A life of shadows, of silent despair.

“St. Peter,” he whispered, his voice unsure,
“Was my life too humble, too obscure?
I bore the cold, I braved the snow,
But did my existence ever glow?”

St. Peter’s face softened, a fleeting spark,
As if his words would kindle the dark.
“Vladislav, your steps were slow,
Each one weighed by all you’d known.

Your purpose isn’t measured by the grand,
It’s found in moments, unplanned, unscanned.
On that train, through the frozen expanse,
In a dining car, you took a chance.

A woman leaned and softly asked,
‘Pass the salt.’ You performed your task.
She smiled once, and though no word was said,
You carried her warmth in the life you led.”

Vladislav smiled, a faint, warm trace,
As if the cold had loosened its embrace.
“A grain of salt,” he murmured, bemused,
“In all the cold, it’s warmth I infused.”

The three now stood, their fates aligned,
Their lives unravelled, redefined.
No shame, no grandeur, just lives laid bare—
Fragments of meaning scattered there.

The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim,
No verdict passed, no angels’ hymn.
And yet they lingered, quiet and still,
As if their purpose had been fulfilled.
 
 
A glass, a glance, a grain of salt,

The moments linger, though memories halt.
The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim,
And purpose whispered, soft and slim.

FSF