My father came back from the second past like rain. 

In the vacant place for a guest

I prepare an empty plate, a fork, a knife

And I guess that he will not stay much time.

The dead are not famous for their hunger for white rice and lentils.

Like always, he will prefer to read “Lovers And Rain” by Nagib Mahfouz

Which he bought in a soft binding in the old city years ago.

Memories are collected to the table like dishes of power:  

The broad hands of my father grip my hand and the hand of my sister,

Grip the string of the beads, the pipe, the books,

With the same guarded delicacy

Of fragile things.