About Minas Avedisian

I can visit your old

village and see

your mother rocking

you to sleep.

On your father's

shoulder I can find

his hoe glinting as he goes

to turn furrows to the light ...

all on canvasses where

a counterpane of reds

broils under a sun

that never sets.

Here is a land

ruled in peace by man;

and man regulated

by his land.

What more can we ask

from an artist's hand?

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