by George Gardashian
Published on: Jul 16, 2003
Type: Poetry

The mountains give off an erie glow
If you happened to catch it at the right time.
The birds chirp gladly in the valleys
Between the unpicked olive trees.
And if you gaze at the stars at midnight
They appear like a million fireflies in the shining sky
But I speak only from memory
For you see, curfews have caged me.
It has been three years since I saw any of those
So to you, O paper, I express my woes.

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