In my dreams he takes me to Pakistan.
I am powerless.
My words have been stripped from me
And I am a beggar among his people.
I can only smile.
What words do I know?
There is nothing
I am a fool.
The children spill into the village.
They are dark eyes and black hair
each face more perfect than the
each building on each other
like a pyramid rising up out of the sand.
One touches my hand.
I am real.
I say to them but they do not understand,
I search for my interpreter,
“Please tell them I am real, Ahmad.”
“No you are not janum.
That is what they are singing to you.”
And I can hear it now,
a sustained hum that rises from bare toes
into the sky.
I am a ghost..
A blond apparition who has stolen the treasure
from their village and they want it
I search for him but he is locked in the embrace of his
kind faced mother.
Once these children
had touched me in wonder, now they claw at my
cut off my hair with a razor
Golden tufts rest around my feet.
Nothing but a memory of his fingers that touched it.
I cry out his name but he cannot hear me.
The children keep singing.
They have ripped the skin from me.
I am a memory that he hums to his children now.
He is the traveler.
He is home.