Coronavirus, poetry by Anahit Arustamyan at



written by: Anahit Arustamyan



The sky has a bath in the spring rains.
Its infected eyelids are dark even by day.
Spring rains are not new.
The black plague took another shape.
The middle ages’ plague has a new name.
Where are the planes?
I don’t see their free flights in the sky’s blue.
Will I get a seat on a plane?
Will I leave my footprints on a seashore’s sands?
No plane flies.
The sky cries.
Do I see my pillow on a hospital’s bed?

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