His eyes were dark black
portraying some kind of calmness
at the same time.
His eyes didn’t tell a thing
but if you looked
longer than a few seconds,
they said everything.
I looked at them curiously,
trying to understand
who is this young man
standing in front of me.
He looked at me back
embarrassed. Sometimes trying to look away.
And I see in my imagination
happy moments he had with his family
holidays and big dinners.
And then a fraction of sadness in his eyes,
and I think of wars.
I suddenly recall the young me,
afraid of taking a single bus drive.
I recall myself, and I think of him, his hometown.
The name of his village arouses mixed feelings
making me feel a slight pain in my stomach.
Who are his parents?
In what environment was he growing up?
Which experiences he had?
I imagine him as a young boy
standing on the side of a narrow street
and an armed convoy passes,
militant men proudly aiming their guns to the sky.
And then I was back to reality.
We met. He came for me, and I came for him.
We met trying to humanize the other
which life and reality made us fear.
His dark black eyes
were a mirror to his soul,
and I saw
that he was just like me.