Another tract of land. This one a wild, abandoned aviation strip. After each rain, a mud pond forms where children sometimes come to launch their small gliders. They barely make it off the ground before falling back down to earth, much to my enthusiasm. But where my gaze ends at the far edge of the field, the woods suddenly take on the majesty of mountains lost among clouds. An ararat looking back at me. Emotion overtakes me in this deserted place, as it did along the shores in Moda at nightfall, where I went to observe my dreams ablaze on the Sea of Marmara, an avalanche of multicolored precious stones. But my gaze always stops on a thin cross that stands erect like a ruin amid this vague landscape. Suddenly, I become sad. Icarus, who had come years ago from the other side of the Atlantic to show us that man could fly, is buried here.
Sarafian, Nigoghos. 2011. The Bois de Vincennes. Translated by Christopher Atamian,
introduction by Marc Nichanian. The Armenian Research Center, University of
Michigan-Dearborn, sf. 31
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