Nothing of Note
He did nothing of note.
Just another government employee.
His monthly take-home: a measly
One thousand three hundred and something Livre Égyptienne.
Responsible only for himself.
Didn’t share his hope or despair with those he calls friends.
Unremarkable inside and out.
Neither evil, nor good.
Neither gifted, nor dull.
Neither possessed, nor a prophet.
Not even a good tale of eking out a living abroad
That might have inspired a film of his struggles
Or left someone missing him at mealtimes.
The type you’d be surprised to see in a dream –
Yet today he turned up in mine,
Standing on the fine line between Being and Nothing,
His eyes open,
Walking down the dust-duned street,
His feet leaving no print
As if he made no impact on the earth –
Like time would not walk with him.
And while he walked, we remained transfixed.
Then the fog slowly swallowed him up
Like a legendary hero
Who did nothing of note,
Except stay standing on his own two feet.