The Armenian in Me
Maybe its age
Maybe the years
I sit under the orchard
Counting the tears
At the bottom of the glass
Reconstructing,
Is it the Armenian in me?
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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