POETRY

The king hung you like a crucifix

From the neck of my city, Isfahan:

With your cathedral and cobblestones

With your taverns and goldsmiths

And your blushing daughters.

The city remained apart from you

Lying beyond Zaiandeh River.

Only poets of midnight

Knocked at the door of your taverns

And hikers of early morning

Disturbed your trickling spring.

For hundreds of years

We grew apart

Until the canals of Zaiandeh River

Brought our hearts together

And the blood of Vazgin

Flowed into my heart.  

Oh, little Armenia!

The tyrants wanted you as a crucifix

But you rose again

Like the crucified Christ.
 

January 29, 1986

* My Armenian friend, Vazgin Mansourian was executed in July 1983 in Evin prison, Tehran. He is survived by his son, Narbeh. In this poem, "Little Armenia" refers to "Jolfa", the Armenian neighborhood in Isfahan. Shah Abbas I (1571-1629) forced Armenians to migrate from their homeland to his capital, Isfahan, Iran.