MORNING after the war

As he got older, he started to wake up early. 

His morning ritual is sacred:

Prepares a cup of mint tea,

puts 3% fat milk in the kettle on low fire

And until it boils,

He smokes his cigarette, and sips his tea under

the vine arbor in the backyard.

His gaze is distant and penetrating,

He thinks of his wars;

His enemies-so many. 

He calculates the losses, estimates the risks,

Predicts the actions, and prepares the attack.

A barrage of ideas and scenarios gyrate around his head

Dancing with the smoke of his cigarette,

Forming an ephemeral halo

visible from afar, 

As far as the other side of the Mediterranean,

Where I sit hunched over my studies of a foreign tongue.

I think of him in the morning, 

I think of his wars and his awaiting battles

And I only hope that my intention, attention, and time

Can permeate his thoughts,

And make myself present:

His daughter- the reason to fight every war.