For a while, I have been looking at this world from a hand-knitted spaceship.
Somewhere on Earth,
someone is kissed for the first time.
Somewhere on Earth,
someone dies for the last time.
Somewhere on Earth,
a heart explodes of joy and love.
Somewhere on Earth,
a bomb explodes on joy and love.
Stars above fall one by one –
someone somewhere makes a wish,
someone somewhere falls with the stars.
Somewhere on Earth,
in my part of space,
stars form a mountain range,
then fall into rocky soils.
At their point of descent,
apricot trees start to bloom.
In times of evening gloom,
the moon prays the Fides Tua,
and the road to Ghazanchetsots lights up again.
In my part of space,
winds of loss often blow,
but so do zephyrs of hope.
Winds of loss and sorrow come and go,
but the stones of life and hope always stay
in my part of space.
Are these regular stones?
Are they apricot stones?
Are they pomegranate seeds?
Are they Hamasyan notes?
Are they…the khachkars of Ghazanchetsots?
Am I standing on them,
or am I made of them?
In these stones,
you never die for the last time.
Every last death is a rebirth
for someone else’s first-time kiss.
These stones are made of fallen stars.
These stones are made of fallen lives.
So it is no wonder why
in my part of space
hand-knitted spaceships never sink.
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