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Donald Hayston
December 23, 2005
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Memory

Like a shell on the beach...
My memory lingers on....
The waves carry them in...
The sand erodes their shape
The rain buries them low...
The sun shines them gold...
A stranger picks it up... Seals it in his palm....
Throws it back into the sea
There in the depth of time..
My memory lingers on.

Prabha Trimurty

Shifting the Sun

When your father dies, say the Irish,

you lose your umbrella against bad weather.

May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh,

you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,

you run out of excuses.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,

you become your own father.

May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When you father dies, say the Indians,

he comes back as the thunder.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,

he takes your childhood with him.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,

you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,

your sun shifts forever.

And you walk in his light.

Diana Der-Hovanessian