To my grandfather
a Spirit you Appear
through your written elegance
A visionary you Hover
in the wounded Flesh
of your children’s hearts, who
remember you Vehemently
but in fact, hardly
Stories waft in pieces, Scents
Sounds of darbuka,
they vanish as quickly
nothing retains them, nobody
really knows the man
who died of an ancient virus
caught upon opening
the buried vaults
of Forgotten gods
By way of your Book
you visit me, Reveal
yourself , your love
for a land which raised you
was not yours, still
houses your Bones
I picture your soul
as the wind lifts the Sand
restless Circling
questioning the years
you spent on your own
Waiting to die
so far from those
who needed you most.
Intrigued! Would love to talk to you about this poem.
the seed of ancestry ….powerful message
Kiki – Is life like smoke…..? Ephemeral. Can’t be touched
Not sure Nancy, sometimes it sure feels like it.