Journey/to Dickran
May 2008 • Vol. 29, No. 4 (102)
By Jimi Baloian
Years drift like ships
in a wind they cannot control
Our last meeting pulses from the shallows of a darkened room
balances on the tip
of my tongue
My feet look for a way back
into that world where we began
slowly among childhood’s
to measure how close our lives
haunted the same streets in different cities
our alphabets and dreams rooted
in the whitened wrinkles of Ararat
or traced into the dust of the San Joaquin
where we stopped the hands of the clock
at sunset and rolled out of our shadows
awakening the lost voices
of ancestors in a land that was not ours to understand
Here among vineyards of green wisdom we found their forgotten names
one by one
becoming our own
Stories
Stories