The Old Man in the Nepali Cap
They greeted me with silent nods,
the men with shaven heads
dressed in white sarongs
like Roman statues come to life,
the women in kerchiefs
setting before me
a brass tray of tea and cakes,
their palms pressed together
as they bowed.
We had come to mourn
the old man in the Nepali cap
who, peering down
the long straight track
at a fast approaching train,
had closed his eyes and jumped,
his cap performing
three pirouettes in the air
before settling in the woods.
His was a familiar story,
the refugee expelled for
nothing more than
speaking the wrong language,
wearing the wrong dress,
practicing the wrong faith.
He had reached America
twenty years too late
with no strength to begin again.
Shantih, shantih, shantih
May he finally be transported
back to the shimmering rice fields,
the snow-capped peaks of his youth.
Poet Art Heifetz
