Circle

A man, a mirror and a bowl in front
That was it; that was all
In the bowl was water, a fly
(On surface, wings spanned)
And a book on his back reflected in mirror
'The Circle'

Comb in hand he played with his hair
Of the book, unconcerned

With brush to the side he looked down
Saw fly and smiled

'You're welcome to circle'
He murmured:
'This is life; a circle'
Kept thinking on way out

One step and second
Looked at watch
It was late
So he rushed

Creak sound of breaks
And a bang
And blood
He had died

Unaware of the why
He was born
He was raised
Then a car overran

‘A Circle' was his life.
Poor Afghan; author of:
'The Circle'

by Nassy Fesharaki

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