When I learned to drink spring water in my palm, I gave my cup to a thirsty soul
When I searched for
words to paint a poem, I found all the shades my passage had already left upon
my path
And under the summer
rain, I heard the whisper that became a song, upon a warm pillow where dreams
had once slept
In welcome shy, and in
hope for the tender embrace of unkept promises
And I heard nightingales
sing, at noon
May 3, 2026
© Vahé A. Kazandjian,
2026
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