With the rain, the mushrooms — bright-white at first,
they soon become flared skirts and fans in an elfin dance;
cursed, or worse — or blessed — quiet, composed —
kissed — for some the world ends like this;
others are smashed by tanks and NATO equipment.
September 28, 2020
Crossroads
#2 Pencil on Index Card
July 2, 2010
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Categories: Drawings, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Armenia, Art, Death, Diaries, Genocide, Journals, Mushrooms, Poems, Poetry, War
William Michaelian 