Anahit Arustamyan

‘’ Time changed my shoes on the staircase of life.
The bottom step where I reached, is my last glide.
I sit there so calmly like a moonlit night.’’

Here are the steps of life in a life’s journey.
The most important ingredient of this salad is romanticism.

“It's me, no, it's not autumn rain.
I fall on your window pane.
I transform to a mild rain
to reach the lane,
where you stand and wait.
Come out, don't fear to get wet.
It's me, no, it's not autumn rain.
I arrive at your place day by day.
I fall from the sky to say,
'it’s me on your way.''

Love and nostalgia “rain” in this short poem to let the reader touch the raindrops that are not cold but warm.

Time

Time, your drive is speedy.
I know you always laugh at me.
I am used to your silent irony.
Once I was wedded to philosophy.
However, my clock turned to be wiser than me.
Time, my clock just mirrors your feet.
My clock just measures your speed.
Unlike me, it never asks you anything.
It never asks why something turns into nothing.
Time, you take something with your every minute.
You sound in my ears, ‘’let it be.’’
Where are the thinkers who explored your drive’s meaning?
O, the new ones have come to sit on your knees.
Time, you always make your knees free.
Their clocks show them your transparent feet.
Their clocks also sound, ‘’let it be.’’

Voyages

Mirages, mirages, you are the witnesses of my voyages.
Mirages, you are wanderers that come back to me.
Voyages, voyages, let the sea sing.
My old clock, I hear my phone ring.
My old clock, make your hands move me.
Mirages, you are the tales that I read.
Voyages, you are the ways that I heed.
Voyages, how many times have you come to me?
Voyages, are you my fantasies?
Mirages, you are the faces of my memories.
So many silent clocks look at me.
I still have chiming clocks around me.
So many silent phones joined my memories.
I still have ringing phones on my voyages.
Voyages, I still sail on my life’s bubbled sea.
Mirages you are the witnesses of my passages.
Voyages, voyages do keep my mirages.

“It's me, no, it's not autumn rain.
I fall on your window pane.
I transform to a mild rain
to reach the lane,
where you stand and wait.
Come out, don't fear to get wet.
It's me, no, it's not autumn rain.
I arrive at your place day by day.
I fall from the sky to say,
'it’s me on your way.''

Love and nostalgia “rain” in this short poem to let the reader touch the raindrops that are not cold but warm.

Book Description
Every poem is my inner monologue that I try to share with you, my dear readers. I know how to make a vivid salad with words that can be aromatic, but bittersweet as well. You can taste it and feel what I felt when the drops of my ink dripped on the paper. These words are not just words, as they are eyes that look at you and tongues that talk to you through the deep caves of my soul. My poems are woven with metaphors, allegorical expressions, poetic descriptions and philosophical thoughts.