Mike Youssefian

There is a silent Muse in my soul.

His loving friends killed him yesterday,

Crucified him on the cross like the Christ,

Asked me to bring flowers to his grave,

And wait his coming to life again.

It is a sad story of all ages,

When friends stab their like every day,

Drink wine and celebrate with joy,

The vanity of the victory at hand.

Like the poor and blind man in the street,

I move my red stick on the floor,

To find my safe road to future

And not be crushed hard in my walk.

My tent is near the bridge on dry sand

With a lost and sad hope in my bag.