Mihran Kalaydjian's Official Blog

Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.

Read, when you’ve picked your nosegay
Of henbane and poppy flowers,
That I was once called Marina,
And discover how old I was.

Don’t think that there’s any grave here,
Or that I’ll come and throw you out …
I myself was too much given
To laughing when one ought not.

The blood hurtled to my complexion,
My curls wound in flourishes …
I was, passer-by, I existed!
Passer-by, stop here, please.

And take, pluck a stem of wildness,
The fruit that comes with its fall —
It’s true that graveyard strawberries
Are the biggest and sweetest of all.

All I care is that you don’t stand there,
Dolefully hanging your head.
Easily about me remember,
Easily about me forget.

How rays of pure light suffuse you!
A golden dust wraps you round …
And don’t let it confuse you,
My voice from under the ground.