Mary Dobbashia
They walked
And it was dusk
Just the two of them.
The old one, and the young.
Close, yet somehow,
Each alone with his thoughts,
So confusing and conflicting.
Each, in a mute silence,
This old, and this young.
What are their thoughts?
As they still walk
Deep in the dusk
It was dusk
And they continued.
The gathering darkness
Was vaguely red, colored by the
Hues of the Autumn leaves.
Silently they took hands,
In the dusk and walked.
What are your thoughts
old one?
Your vague yearnings.
Look up, we will not laugh
At your tears,
Are your thoughts of the past,
Of your beloved country?
What blood and ruin have you seen.
Are you thinking of the perished families,
Of the great poets, and the wondrous countryside
Of your beloved land?
Old one, these are your thoughts
Yet you walk on
Further
And it is dusk
Look, old one
At the young standing beside you
The Armenian youth,
He is the new poet, the new author,
He sees the mountain and valley,
He is the new symbol and faith of your country
But they walked
This young and this old,
It was dusk,
Just the two of them
Toward the future.
