The Baghlani

how might i make
a human connection, when
so much sets
us two apart?
his idiom is not mine —
mine, it is not his;
albeit both our
homes have been by
war ravaged, but in
different ways.

so, do we share this?

no, not this even, for
no way to convey the
hurt exists, except
perhaps…
with the eyes? or by the
wear on our faces?
his more than mine.

yet there are the notes,
feebly singing strings
in dust and wind.
sing, says he — ah! he does
know a word to connect
us, but i am embarrassed,
and so dissemble:
i can’t.
but this is a lie.

and so
there is only the melody
of a simple tune.
thank you, he says, as
well as he can.
tashakur, i say,
forgetting
myself.

 

Nate Østby

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