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?