Looking at the photograph of an old poet of a lost language, people see a bamboozled expression, as if he got lost while attempting to know this life, What story of life he understood they don’t know, he is looking at a flower through his glasses, but he is also looking at something else, the thing isn’t visible to the people but it is reflected in the empty, yet somehow meaningful gaze of the poet,
As his daughter sits close to him,
holding his wrinkled hand into hers,
it looks like she understands his gaze,
and enjoys his smell of the old people,
that is like the smell of old things,
rich, overwhelming, humble, not forceful, subtle,
that I call the fragrance of wisdom,
the poet points to the flower
and the butterfly circling it,
and little buds of moistness float
in the daughter’s eyes,
for here is the nectar,
collected in the little moments
with the old poet…
© Manan sheel.
