From midnight on, the house has been pelted with branches and cones.
Their clatters and clunks sound like a roofing crew. Such is November in the ark.
Will Ararat be visible come daylight? Or will it be leveled by the flood?
O, wind! O, rain! Wash this blood from the breast of the dove!
November 13, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Armenia, Diaries, Genocide, Journals, Mt. Ararat, Poems, Poetry
William Michaelian 