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.