Alma

   • Voices of the West  

In the frost-kissed fields of Uppland's plain,
Where the northern winds whisper old and cold,
A peasant's daughter, Alma, heard the call,
At nineteen summers, her young heart bold.
Tales of sorrow from a distant land,
Armenian cries 'neath the Ottoman yoke,
She pledged her life to the Savior's hand,
To heal the broken, to lighten the smoke.
From Stockholm's shores, with faith as her sail,
She crossed the seas to Mush's shadowed vale.

Oh, Alma brave, with eyes of steel and fire,
Defender of the meek in the storm's cruel ire!
Through rivers of blood, you stood unyielding tall,
A shield for the voiceless, answering heaven's call.
Willing heart, unbowed by the tyrant's might,
You guarded the lambs in the endless night—
Brave Alma, light in the heart of the fray,
For the defenseless, you'd give your soul away.

In orphanage halls, where children's laughter rang,
She mended wounds with gentle, calloused care,
Taught songs of hope 'mid the mountain's pang,
While shadows gathered, foul and unaware.
Then war's black thunder cracked the eastern sky,
The gendarmes came with chains and fiery hate,
They tore the little ones from her side with cries,
Marched them to doom through the devil's gate.
She clutched the babes, her voice a thunder's roar,
Defied the blades at the orphanage door.

Oh, Alma brave, with eyes of steel and fire,
Defender of the meek in the storm's cruel ire!
Through rivers of blood, you stood unyielding tall,
A shield for the voiceless, answering heaven's call.
Willing heart, unbowed by the tyrant's might,
You guarded the lambs in the endless night—
Brave Alma, light in the heart of the fray,
For the defenseless, you'd give your soul away.

She saw the mothers swallow death's dark draught,
To flee the chains of shame and endless pain;
The wounded dragged through streets, where soldiers laughed,
And bullets sang like demons in the rain.
No power could she wield but words like flame,
She slipped through peril's grasp on roads of dread,
To diplomats' ears, she poured the genocide's shame,
Her testimony, a sword where hope lay dead.
In exile's wake, to Salonika she flew,
Built looms for refugees, schools where dreams renew.

Through years of wandering, her spirit ne'er grew dim,
A factory bloomed from two hundred hands in flight,
Kindergartens rose like beacons, strong and slim,
Where Armenian songs chased away the night.
She wrote her witness in ink that bled like tears,
A People in Exile, a cry for the lost and slain,
Till ninety-four winters claimed her, without fears,
In Stockholm's earth, her legacy remains.
Honored in Yerevan, where festivals sing her name,
A saint of mercy, forever unchained.

Oh, Alma brave, with eyes of steel and fire,
Defender of the meek in the storm's cruel ire!
Through rivers of blood, you stood unyielding tall,
A shield for the voiceless, answering heaven's call.
Willing heart, unbowed by the tyrant's might,
You guarded the lambs in the endless night—
Brave Alma, eternal light in the fray,
For the defenseless, your flame lights the way.