Past the mountain Aragats, Beyond fields of cabbage and potatoes, The mooing of cows, and the call of roosters, Amidst rocks and stones and dusty roads, Past twisted scraps of metal and concrete chunks Heaped on a winding path Near rushing water, An ancient church - Marmashen, Blackened with candle smoke and time, Stands crumbling In the coolness of moss And tall grass Bowing in the wind near royal tombstones.
The ancient church Stands vigil still To the occasional prayers Murmured On bended knees As candles burn And coins are dropped into a plate. At times, as in the old days, Prayers are released to Heaven On the wings of doves.
And in the nearby city - Gyumri, On a street Lined with domeeks Molded and rusted long ago, But still called home, A man is dead. No candles burn for him. No prayers are said, Not even a tear.
Ignored by passersby In life as in death, The man, A son of Armenia, In tattered clothes, Lies dead, Face down On a littered, crumbling sidewalk, With only the weeds at his side.
Doves cry from above.
To those Sons and Daughters of Armenia who are seen merely as the ‘Bumzher’ and ‘Homlessner’ ‘The Bums and the Homeless.’