Arthur Gulumian



Sweet tender beautiful nightingale—
If only I embraced words to account
For such alluring eyes

If solely I clutched words to impend
The melody that is conceived
Your voice—

My sweet tender beautiful Nightingale—
Even so as you walk the
Night with confinement to your only company—
Know that I will follow—

Words!— If only I hailed command
Over them as you hold command
Over my heart—

No— I mustn’t stand distracted.
I swear on whatever unworthy
Soul I possess— I will find a word!

Radiant! — no where near…
Becoming! — too modest…
Angelic — incomprehensible!

T’is an impossible task my nightingale—
For my mind wonders too freely
Of the thoughts of you.
T’is but only a moment hindered
By a befitting wonder—

No my sweet tender beautiful nightingale—
A sonnet will not do…
And neither will the wordiest
Of pure poetry—

I still am unable to find a word—
A word to describe such celibacy,
But I know of a name to
Liken the probity of your soul!

What might it be you say?

T’is the name of a true angel

T’is the name of the one I love still—

T’is your name, my nightingale.