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.
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