For Daniel Varoujan
Homesick for your own land you left the university and splendor of Europe and traveled singing songs of home. You left singing “I go to the provinces of the sun, the fountain of light.” All the time it was you who was the light, the light you called “Blodstream of nature, the gown of day.” It was April, an ironic April of flowers reeking of death, not perfume, an April with the hyena panting in wait while you started out for “the founfain of light....