Autumn in Artsakh

are you well rested? a celestial commotion is well underway. body forth your autumnal awe, gentle and moving to and fro the changing seasons, the burying of red flesh, fallen prey, oceans away. and yes. you must have heard. it is time for the sinking away of the bright summer starlet, along with its staggering heat- its melting away taking over the October heavens in a seasonal minute. how pretty the sky looks. prepare to warm the kettle onto the stove and stare into the dance of its emanated warmth as you rub your cool hands together, harnessing the vestige of incoming deep sleep, rain pattering as sweet song. the inner linings of your stomach caressed by herbal infusions of cinnamon and gingery sting. off you go with your pumpkin pies and sunset rides. knowing, down deep, that within your awaiting pillow lay gentle dreams. know, too. within theirs lay thoughts of a fated parting from this life. from their yet threatened families. how sharp this irony stands on the tongue. within their throats, gunpowder sticks like cement. think of them as you brush your hair and hold a lover's present hand. protected from genocidal harm. what a privilege it must be. and may you always savour it. but i beg you. you. you. you. to not again forget the words that must be said. the prayers that must be cast. there are mothers and fathers and grandparents and children without the liberty of smooth sleep. now. and for over a century. one can only imagine. the privilege of uninterrupted sleep. no nightmares of the hanging and slitting of throats. of the raping of wives and mothers. the dismembering of brothers and sisters and daughters and sons. right there. there. there. the bloodshed of over a million compatriots. the remembrance boiling in our surviving bones. you see. to sleep means to dream. and my people's dreams are heavy. heavy. heavy with the possibility of banishing, melting into the blood-wet sod without saying goodbye. without being lived on to be told as tales on the breakfast table during a normal lifetime. how sickening. to think of the incessance of such ancestral genocide yet ongoing. and fierce. there is so much life to be celebrated. so much song to dance to. so much earth to love on. yet. it is everything that is ours that they spend their eternities lusting over. murdering for. what a waste of such precious earthly existence. it is autumn in Artsakh, too. you must have heard. the ground there overflows with so many fallen leaves. Author's note: This piece was weaved with the hope to awaken the world that chooses to be silent while Armenians are at risk of yet another genocide.

Autumn in Artsakh

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Perla Kantarjian

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This story is FREE for you...

Perla Kantarjian

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