She is the flame

A Mother’s Day tribute to the women of Armenia and Artsakh

Blazing beneath the broken breath of mountains,
Brave-browed mothers birthed the burdened dawn—
In blood-soaked soil, through silence shattered,
They rose relentless, when right was gone.

Garments torn but gazes granite,
They fed the flame from famine’s feast,
Smuggling sons past sword and slaughter,
And stitched in strength with every crease.

In 1915, when vultures veiled
In violet smoke tore through the dust,
She bore the cradle and the cause—
With fists of faith, with grit and trust.

She sang in secret. She sewed the scars.
In exile’s echo, her eyes held stars.
Her lullabies lit rebel fires—
A mother’s murmur moved empires.

Then came the cry of Karabakh,
Storm-wracked skies of ’91,
And once again her spirit surged—
She bore the wound. She bore the gun.

Wheat-haired daughters dug the trenches,
While widows wove the warrior’s will.
With bread in baskets, balm in hands,
They broke the dark with dauntless skill.

And in the ash of twenty-twenty,
While drones like devils drowned the day,
She stitched her sons in cloths of valor,
Then turned and kept the child at play.

Through sirens’ screams and shattered schools,
Through censored truths and burned-out dreams,
She prayed in bunkers, bold and bare—
Each breath she took, a battle prayer.

But crueler still, in twenty-three,
When homes fell hushed in hollow flame,
The hills of Artsakh wept in silence.
And yet—she stood. Unbowed. Untamed.

No prison chained her ancient song,
No exile dimmed her embered grace.
From Shushi’s loss to Stepanakert’s grief,
She bore the homeland in her face.

O Sister of Sorrows, Matron of Might—
You are the dawn that outlives night.
With calloused hands, you carve the truth.
In every grave, you plant your youth.

Still she stands, with spine of stone.
In shadow’s clutch, she stands alone—
But never bowed, nor begging breath,
She is the mother who outmarches death.

So sing, Shahumyan, from your peaks,
Of women fierce, whom freedom seeks.
For while the world forgets the flame,
She remembers. She reclaims.

Still she stands—the last defense.
Where flags fall silent, and maps condense.
Not stone nor summit holds her name—
She is the land. She is the flame.

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Hoory Minoyan

Hoory Minoyan was an active member of the Armenian community in Los Angeles until she moved to Armenia prior to the 44-day war. She graduated with a master's in International Affairs from Boston University, where she was also the recipient of the William R. Keylor Travel Grant. The research and interviews she conducted while in Armenia later became the foundation of her Master’s thesis, “Shaping Identity Through Conflict: The Armenian Experience.” Hoory continues to follow her passion for research and writing by contributing to the Armenian Weekly.

Latest posts by Hoory Minoyan (see all)

• She is the flame - May 8, 2025
• The Region in Brief - May 7, 2025
• Armenian opposition pushes for stronger law against genocide denial - April 23, 2025