“Dear grandfather,” I asked,
holding tight the bonny neck
of my camel mount, “how do I know
if this is an oasis or a mirage
in the middle of the desert?
He said “My dear boy,
an oasis will give you
sweet sustenance: water,
dates, oranges and shadow;
but mirages—even though
are said to be “optical illusions”—
are where the seeds of orange trees
and dates in oases come from.
A mirage is where you can see
the valiant Colossus
of Rhodes
built of this desert’s sands—
in all its golden glory
guarding the harbor mouth
of distant lands of distant ages.”
And with these words disappeared
my grandpa, like last drops of water
in thirsty desert’s flask, sadly
sliding down her dry throat.
And with these words disappeared
my grandpa, who had died
in the middle of a desert
thirty two long years ago
-when mom was six-and I went on,
carrying the sun the sands
and him in my tired orbs.
