Charles Aznavour Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Charles Aznavour

An old fashioned microphone in front of him, he sings, he sings La Bohème; his voice is breeze, I feel chill of Bohemianism. There are like-minded people, the Roma-people, the lower-castes of the gypsy. In colorful-fluffy outfits they are weightless and dance. They are the Magi, a word of the past, the Mogh, the Zoroastrian priest. The wind does its work, blows, it howls, it is a wolf, a pack of wolves that attacks with greed, with arms, with ideologies.

Pieces of flesh paint the canvas of the land; blood covers the sky, sun shines and dries everything in union of a frame; that is history with few permanent ties, musical, artistic, or literary pursuits. Bohemians may be wanderers, adventurers, vagabonds also refugees seeking a promised land of asylum; ignored but restless.

His hands move, from side to side, a kerchief in one as if cleaning the blood, blood of genocide, Turks killing Armenians, occupying their place, making homelessness. Like Assyrians, Afshars and the Aryans scattered all the way to Croatia and Bulgaria...and the music goes on like chains of cascades; looking to be Niagara, once the mysterious ruler taking sacrifice, young maid whose tears spray, the mist of the maid, now divided between USA and Canada, new occupiers.

He sings and I am on drug...drug of having been born close to where he was; brothers in blood.