He Is A Hymn Of Freedom
Poem by Max Reif
I pictured a man of 75,
but that was his address, not his age.
He was younger than me,
eternal twinkle in the eye,
whiskers on his chin.
Sipping coffee and munching
on the patio of the donut store
there in the vast sea
of shopping center asphalt,
he told me again the saga
that had brought him from Saudia Arabia,
where he had worked as practically a slave,
to these streets of Los Angeles
in a year, this man I never thought I'd see
on this side of the world,
my dear friend, Nimal.
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