ROSES FOR THE FEAST OF VARTAVAR
(For Vyaczeslaw Ivanovich)

You praised red roses raised
for Vartavar. And in return
I sang sad singers' songs.
You said: Your country's gardens
are unmatched. Search near and far.
In spite of flinty land, your roses burn.

Vartavar's red rosy wreaths
wherever you turn. Just as the hail
spangles mountains and dale, flames
have scorched our fields and burned
our homes. Look where endless blood
was let. So many bled. No wonder
that our roses blaze so fiery red.