Alan Whitehorn: Obsidian Obsession

The quest for a special rock
to take back from my ancestral homeland
begins with an existential question.
What sort of rock should it be?
Then I ask:
Where will I find it?
What shape will it have?
I repeat my questions to several different persons,
and each time the answer is unanimous:
“Black obsidian rock
to be found on the road to Lake Sevan”.
A volcanic rock formed under enormous pressure so long ago
seems apt for a land that has witnessed so much suffering in its history.
The colour black evokes memories of the genocide.
The rock’s hardness is a reminder of the toughness needed to survive in such a rugged land.
And thus at a rock cut on the road to Lake Sevan,
I cross the four lane highway and select my precious obsidian.
And I hold in my hand a piece of my ancestral homeland.

Alan Whitehorn

This poem appears by kind permission of the author.