UGUR, ASAF, BEHÇET Poem by Henrik Nordbrandt

The night I came, shattered,
into my favourite bar
and told about my girlfriend's death
the day before
they were there, all three:
Ugur, who went out and bought flowers
and asked me to take them with me
when I went
to the place where it happened
Asaf, who later gave me a drawing
and Behçet, the psychiatrist
who offered to help me
with what is called "grief".
By coincidence they really were there
that night, the three
who two years later were killed
burned in God's name
by a band of fanatics.

The dried roses
lie in the trunk of my car
Asaf's drawing
yellows in its frame on the wall.
And as for grief
it surprises me that I could have learned
that word
so many years ago
when what plagued me worst of all
was boredom.