Reading Vahan Teryan



Light is failing, night is falling.
House to house the dark comes calling.
A stranger walks toward me, alone,
her face familiar as my own.

As in fairy tales, the fountain dances
beside us, blessing our passing glances.
Her calm gait, her rhythmic stride
continue into what I write.

Fate’s gift: this moment occurs,
luminous and without words
like a scene from a romance
but just a small happenstance.


My mother’s hands were tapered slim
like candles that might burst in flame.
My mother’s voice was like a balm
soothing each pain, calling each name.

Her holy sense of right and wrong.
Forever calm, her fire-filled eyes.
Her thousand tales, her endless songs.


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