Lamb

If a lamb were born in Armenia where it realized its innocence, would it be of the same heredity of genes and mystical whys as I?

Would the cells of its nourishing blood be stamped Yerevan, the capital city, or would they decry the lost one slightly to the west?

Would it imbibe pride with every drink of water as the people do?

Or would it be the lamb that a mother calls– karnoog, she might say while patting affection’s fur– to a child with scrawny legs, hoping that home will be her religion?

Or would nation or heredity be a consideration?

Would it be a he-lamb or she-lamb patted by controversy or neutral as a spade?

Would its eyes talk to me or you or anyone of the reluctant world of a universe of plurals?

Would its first small cry wake us from a pure sleep or would nest in a corner unelegantly as we do?

The answers are cast in the stones we breathe out of the seething air.