My Father. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

My father.
I haven't thought of him for a while.
I haven't dreamt of him as of late.
I have been silent about him for long.
It seems he wants to make amends.
It seems he regrets.
I don't know, I should perhaps forgive.
I should, perhaps, forget.
A long way back. More than a lifetime. I was his son.
He was my father. A stranger. An old man.
A tired old man; made bitter by hard life.
I was made small by his bitterness.
Small to the level of dust.
Invisible, inexistent, blown with the wind.
Should I forget?
Should I forgive?
Who knows if I'd ever live?