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The Literary Groong - 01/06/2007

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	By William Michaelian

	Somewhere, long ago,
	in an ancient, rocky land,
	there was an old man
	warming himself by a fire. 

	He was alone. 

	The world he knew
	had died  -  his world:
	the people he loved, gone,
	the children playing
	in his village, gone,
	the village itself, gone. 

	Only the sun remained,
	and the wind and moon and sea,
	and the rocky ground
	that led down to the sea. 

	His only companion was his fire. 

	He ate his olives
	and his cheese,
	but the ritual
	brought no comfort. 

	He sang, but no one heard. 

	He waited, dreamed, remembered,
	wondered, mourned, beseeched,
	and then he began again,
	and again and again began,
	until at last he decided
	he must be a ghost,
	a spirit granted no rest
	and fated to suffer. 

	The old man wept,
	and as he wept,
	the centuries settled
	like dust around him,
	quietly hiding his pain. 

	Then, from a great distance,
	he heard a voice:
	it belonged to a child,
	and the child was saying
	Papa, come home. 

	Startled by the sound,
	the old man looked up
	into the eyes
	of his grandchildren,
	a boy and a girl
	not yet ten years old. 

	Come on, Papa. Come on:
	they took him by the hand. 

	A kiss, a kiss. 

	And the ancient land
	was young again,
	the fire, burning on.

Several of William Michaelian's poems and short stories have appeared
in Ararat. Many have also been translated into Armenian, and have been
published in Yerevan in Garun, Grakan Tert, Aghpyur, and Artasamanyan
Grakanutyun. The author maintains an extensive website at

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