Yerevan morning
Patrick Azadian
Emerging into your winter dawn,
when the intoxicated night
begins to loosen her grip
on your rocky skyline,
I land my heavy footsteps
on your solitary pavements,
impatiently,
awaiting your every waking hour.
With the exuberance
of a spoiled child,
I yank on your pink sarong,
layered with heavy rocks,
in intermittent, unrelenting movements,
hoping to thrust your eyes
into liberating themselves from
the censor of your lurid lids.
I lay my prying eyes on your rosy figure;
there is a tail of promise
in your despondent vision,
and suffering in your aching bust.
Sidewalks formed by harmonious,
geometric shapes,
lead me to your tidy lovers’ garden,
thirsty fountains,
the forgotten, skeletal boy selling water,
and the angular, solitary,
undefeated monuments.
In search of untold fables,
I gather swords of lightening from my eyes,
and strike them
across your shipwrecked terrain,
zealous, stubborn edifices,
disappearing clay tandoors,
to your glassy flower shops,
awaiting the arrival of the merchants of love.
I greet the alien sculptures,
the fat cats and the rubber lions,
at the pretend-happy amusement park,
keeping your native jewels
in the shadows of oblivion.
I walk up the frozen steps,
to once again,
paint a view of your landscape
on my tainted retinas.
At the top of this Tower of Babylon,
I am dreary,
I have a wicked feeling,
that the deities may confound
our common tongue,
and once again,
scatter us across the callous continents.
Desperate,
to become embroidered with your present,
I exile the last remnants of air from my lungs,
making room in my eager chest,
willingly,
I inhale your ocean of dust,
made from mountains of squandered debris,
stolen from your storied heart.
Anxious to collect your songs,
catch the gist of your ingenious bards,
to entwine my flesh with your metamorphosis,
I mend my ears,
plaster my senses,
to the dance of your cold winds,
released from your embezzled mountaintops,
weaving through your stone-made,
circular frame.
I want to hear the greatness of Khaldi,
Argishti and Menua,
the glory of the land of Biainili,
wondering,
if ancient, tired tales,
can carve a passageway
to a viable future.
Before long,
timidly,
your industrious daughters and sons,
emerge from the underground of
moving metal carts,
painted, mural tunnels,
and the communal apartment yards.
In search of understanding,
a hint of belonging,
I follow the stretched procession
of your human caravans,
bursting minibuses,
and the gang of
wandering canine orphans.
You know,
true love is only half blind,
and I can’t tell,
if there is despair,
or by chance,
a conviction,
in this weary, early morning waltz,
each and every route,
a longing for rebirth,
revival,
a desire to seize the tomorrow,
or a persuasion to escape.
