«Ո՞ւր ես»

Where are you?

Wandering in yellowed maps along 
lines swooping and curving to touch
time-buried footsteps

paths of storied ancestors traced,
now wiped, bulldozed, and renamed for the
unsuspecting tourist,

who, half-read history book in hand,
worships false cities. Not the beloved
Խարբերդ, Վան, or

Կարին, visited in cherished memories
passed down by tired mouths and
knowing eyes.

«Ո՞ւր ես»

Where are you?

Attempting to convince smug PhDs
in gilded university halls why their
straight lines imprison 

while speaking a language that bends
worldly convention, difficult on 
the tongue yet

sacred in sound, calling forward a
knowledge obscured by the fruitless chase
for empire

that kills, flattens our pasts and presents
like old cardboard boxes collecting dust
in the basement. 

«Ո՞ւր ես»

Where are you?

Projecting dreams into the glowing
unknown, I envision a diasporic futurity
borderless without

lines   checkpoints   maps   authorities
crafted by your murderous desires
and fear of the

unknowable. My unbounded existence
sings to the exiled across time and
space—an invitation

to claim roots in the rootless. I know
where you are, I know where you’re from,
I know you.

«Յես ո՞ւր եմ»

“Where am I?”

Beyond.