Alan Whitehorn: Siroun's Lament
In a remote Anatolian field somewhere that I do not know;
upon unmarked graves of the dead, I hope flowers do grow.
In the beginning, only suffering and endless tears were sown,
but as decades passed, love and understanding have also grown.
From one small child standing helpless and ever so frail,
and, despite a nation refusing to admit the ghastly tale,
a family somehow has been nurtured with love and respect,
and within the diaspora, a better life has come to expect.
We are children and grandchildren of the genocide,
but are now citizens of the world, we do decide.
We cannot ignore other peoples’ suffering and pain,
whether amidst a remote desert or tropical rain.
The children of the genocide do live;
most recover, and some even forgive.
But we shall never forget
the torment that was beget
in the arid, Anatolian plain
where the tears turned to rain.
