In Exile.

I met an old man in the park. I glanced up briefly as he subsided heavily on to the bench beside me. Elderly, bearded, a skullcap; a tattered tweed jacket over his shalwar kameez to protect him from the autumn chill.

I sensed him watching as I struggled with a recalcitrant verse.
"What do you write?" he eventually asked in heavily accented English.
"A poem" I replied distractedly. I had a deadline and my muse had abandoned me.
"A Poet" he sighed. "That is good".
We sat in silence for a moment or two.
"I wrote" he declared. "Long ago".

"Really?"
"Many plays, and two novels".
I close the notebook and turn to face him.
"Do you still write?"
"No" he shook his head sadly.
"Why not? I can't imagine life without it!"
Slowly he withdrew his arms from the pockets of his jacket and held them up. Where there should be hands there was... nothing. Two scarred stumps.

"Christ" I gasped, before I could stop myself.
"The fanatics" he shrugged.
He thrust his mutilated limbs back into his pockets.
"But you could still write" I ventured. "There must be ways.. prosthetics maybe"
He shook his head sadly.
"You do not understand. I lost more than hands that day".
"What happened?"
"My wife.. she warned me many times. Not to be so arrogant. Not to deliberately offend".
I don't know if it was the cold or the memories ,but his eyes had moistened.
"They did not need to take my hands" he whispered. "I could never have written another word once she was gone. I did not listen and they killed her."
He stood up and bowed his head to me a little.
"God protect you, Poet" he said as he turned and slowly walked away.