In alleys dark where silence hums, Where moonlight barely dares to come, A robber stalks with shadow’s grace, No mercy etched upon his face. His hands are swift, his heart is steel, He lives to take, not feel or heal. A whispered creak, a silken tread— He plunders while the world lies dead.
But fate, like wheels that twist and turn, Has ways to make the hardened learn. For not all tools that man has made Are meant for wounds or warlike blade. One silent night beneath the veil, Where plans were sharp and hearts were stale, The robber crept through sleeping light, To steal again and fade from sight.
A house stood still—its lights were dim, An easy score, so thought of him. He pushed the latch, no sound, no cry, No barking dog to testify. He slid into the silent room, Prepared to breathe in stolen gloom. But lo! beneath his cautious foot, Lay something soft… not rug, not soot.
A rubber mat, or so it seemed, But this was more than what he dreamed. A substance thick, like tar refined, That grasped and clung and slowly twined. It hugged his boot, it seized his hand, It did not move at his command. It wrapped around with tightening grip— His breath grew short, his mind did slip.
He struggled hard, but rubber held, It pulsed as if by spirits spelled. It did not burn, it did not freeze, It simply bound with silent ease. And then—a voice, not heard but felt, A weight of guilt began to melt. It echoed not from outer air, But deep within his soul laid bare.
"You rob, you take, you justify, Yet still you fear to look inside. For every purse you slyly steal, You hide the wounds you will not heal."
The rubber rubbed, but not with wrath— It cleansed him as he kicked its path. Each motion met a mirrored hand, That taught him truths he'd never planned. It scrubbed not skin, but sins and scars, The greed, the pride, the hidden wars. The robber wept, though none could see, For what had bound him… set him free.
By dawn he knelt upon the floor, A soul unchained, not thief no more. He rose to light with aching frame, Yet in his chest, no more shame. The house still slept, untouched, intact, But he had changed—and that’s a fact.
So tell the tale in sacred prose, Of how the dark with grace arose. How not with sword, nor flame, nor rod, But rubber served the hand of God. For sometimes grace is strange and firm, It holds you fast, it makes you squirm. But in its rub, its grip, its bind— It peels the scales, restores the mind.
For not all robbers wear a mask, And not all rubbers merely bask. Some rub the soul with holy fire, To purge the thief and lift him higher.
Let heaven laugh, let angels cheer, For even thieves can draw God near. When rubber rubs and hearts are torn, A robber dies—and man is born.
