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written by: Anahit Arustamyan
There are plenty of flowers in May.
Daddy! Which ones should I take to your grave?
There are some poppies in my hand.
Why are they painted red?
They have been scarlet since the bodies bled.
That war ended on the last century's chest.
Each century makes a fire on its own face.
Daddy! You were a student learning the history of your land.
You became a soldier as the war burned your writing desk.
Many years have passed but we memorize the ninth of May.
Another century has ridden its sledge.
A coming century will sweep my grave.
Isn't the poppy the soil's scarlet nerve?