Poetry
The Last Door
Dwelling at the sword’s edge of uncertainty,
Haunted remnants of fears fall away from me,
Turn back into the highland clay formed
Long before being remade by our գոյամարտ.
Howling at the grey wolves prowling madder,
Inside, imperial lies fall silent,
Hammered hate goes unrequited,
Echoing the pulse of eleven million դհ
Or, subscribe now for unlimited access
By submitting your email address you agree for Hairenik Association, Inc. to send you communication by email.
Already a subscriber?Log in here
This story is FREE for you...
Create a free account to access this and four more articles, and get more sent to you with our e-newsletter.By submitting your email address you agree for Hairenik Association, Inc. to send you communication by email.
