FOREIGN

This Nayirian soul of mine
stands like an alien apart
with its sadness and chain
of old complaints.

Even if you decipher our alphabet
and read our lettered stones,
our labor and ancient pain
would stay unexplained.

The towers that mourn
my dying country do not tell
all, nor move you with their toll.
To you they are bells.

And here at this feast we laugh
together, but stay apart.
You never know the Armenian wine
we drink is the blood from our heart.