The Armenian in Me

Maybe its age
Maybe the years
I sit under the orchard

Counting the tears
At the bottom of the glass

Is it the Armenian in me?


In dream, In paradise
In the blood
In the rolling thunder
between us
I remove the scarf
The air beneath your feet
The swords crossed in gripped hands

The blind wind of desolation
That pretends all mountains
Will crumble before
Its raging