ANSWER a poem by Viken L. Attarian (April 5, 2008)

In 1915,



My grandfather was 12 years old,

When he walked the road to hell,



On the way,

He buried his younger brother in the desert.

Whose shorts he kept until he died

To remember him by.



In 1997,

He spoke of this journey to hell,

And remembered.

"They were not all killers" he said,

"Some were honourable, and helped us".

He then went to bed for the last time.



In 2004, I met a Holy Man.

He is very wise.

As if he were a thousand years old.

I asked him:

"You are but a handful, how can you counter over 1.3 billion Chinese?"



The answer was serene:

"Our only hope is when they themselves realize

that what they are doing to us is wrong".



He then smiled

With the smile of my grandfather.



My grandfather, the Dalai Lama.

SCALES a poem by Manuel Keusseyan (December 26, 1988)

An unarmed monk,

In Lhasa,

His worthful honour held high,

His faith unwavering,

Faces the barrels of the gun


And voices: "Tibet !!!".




In Spitak,

From under the debris

Of the tremorous earthquake,

A pale young boy,

Stands up,

Throws off the dust and bloody cinders,


Then spirits out: "Armenia!!!"



Walking on towards a newer life.

Mother Djomolungma, Ararat the Free

Balances of God, and beneath His gaze

Points most sacred and equally mighty.

Supporting on their shoulders

The Great Harmony.