“better to let things go than run behind them”, said
the grandfather of six at the edge of his seat
watching the valley get immersed under the mist of October
the yellow skin of autumn reddened under his bare feet
the soft pull of the hookhah in his lips, followed
by a flurry of fresh smoke

later in the evening when we gathered calmly
the sheep put to sleep nearby, fenced from the wolves
watery gosht potent with red chillies and saffron, naan
just baked by his cousin dipped bit by bit
suddenly all the plates were clean, as we
sat outside watching the milky way glide over the snow

the earth froze as we reached midnight
voyaging winds from neighbouring valleys came and went
gazing into the sky he began muttering songs in another language
and in only a few uncountable sips of light kahwa
I saw his entire life unravel before me
note after note



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