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Yeghishe charents

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Yeghishe Charents (Soghomonyan), a legendary poet of the Armenian literature, was born on March 13 in Kars, one of the former capitals of Armenia, in Western Armenia, into a family of tradesman. His parents came from Maku to Kars where he received his primary and secondary education. His first literary attempts were at school. The poems of this period were combined in the collection called “Garun” (Spring). His first book, “Three Songs to the Pallid Girl”, the reward of his first love, was published when he was seventeen. A year later the poem “Blue-Eyed Homeland” was published. Armenia did not stay away from The World War I. In 1914 Charents joined the Armenian volunteer troops against Turks and fought until they reached Van. His participation in the national struggle to defend his homeland inspired him to write “Dantean Legend”, published in 1916 in Tbilissi. Then he went to Moscow for literary studies at the Shaniavski Institute. Back from Moscow he became involved in teaching, literary and cultural work. May 28, 1918, The Republic of Armenia was formed, and Charents became the poet of its happy and sad days. In 1921 he married Arpenik Ter Astvatsatrian, who passed away less than seven years after they were married. A year after their marriage the poet published, in two volumes, a collection of his poems entitled “Collected Works”. In 1924 he traveled abroad to visit Armenian Diaspora in Turkey, France, Greece, Italy and Germany. After his return to Armenia he and a group of other Armenian writers founded a literary organization called the Association of Armenian Proletarian Writers. Later he became the director of Armenia’s State Publishing House. He published six volumes of poetry and a novel: “Lyrical Ballads” “Dantean Legend”. “The Frenzied Mobs” “Poems” “Land of Nairi”, a novel, “Epic Daybreak”, “Book of the Road”. Charents also has many translated works by famous Russian, German, American and other poets and unpublished poems. Charents is considered the founding father of modern Eastern Armenian poetry. His prolific creative activity lasted 25 years. His way of writing prompts to discover in him several creators – the poet of the tragedy of the motherland and the poet of the tragedy of man, the traveller of mysterious dreams, the messenger of the battled for change of life and the sacrifice of temptations to his people, the messenger of new art and the singer of new days, the annalist of the idealistic history of the time, the philosopher of history course, the fate of people and the true witness to tragic fight and valour. In the infinite world of human feelings, in the intricate bonds of searching love, longing, dreams and the meaning of life, the poet confirmed his undivided love towards his country. Seeing the real circumstances his country faced during the national struggle moved him to envelope his impressions in the “Dantean Legend”. The spirit of fighting grows into call to all leading the main character, the collective strength of crowds to victory (“Soma”, “The Demented Mobs”). Then the scene passes into a collection of time phases – the ever deepening past and the opening future come to a point that is the present and the most fatal moment of the history of the people. The present is the time of destruction and resurrection. The poet faces to the future and pronounces his speech on behalf of the land of Nairi to the whole world (“The Land of Nairi”). The difficult political situation in Armenia caused by the invasion of Turks in 1920 was reflected in the poem “The Vision of Death” shaped as compression of smashed hopes and the tragedy of the lost country, the unending tragedies Armenians suffered between 387 and 1920. Apart from the wave floating as the fate of the country, there is also that of the human being and the poet starting with love, the highest feeling adding meaning to life, and the loss of the symbol of love, the pallid girl (“Three Songs to the Pallid Girl”). This is followed by the recollection of departed love (“The Land of Fire”) and the vision of the departed sweetheart in the recollection (“Vision Time”). Yet the greatest feeling is transformed into a fabulous and mysterious experience (“Lyrical Ballads”). The collection of poems entitled “Rainbow” is the end of gloomy love. “Rainbow” introduces feelings and experiences in colours: through the blue, golden and violet the poet creates a colored world of dreams. Blue, the beginning of love, is a prayer to the illusion of love; blue is the hidden world of love, the mysterious night, followed by the dawn of love, the golden sun. The gold is the light of the real world. In search of mutual life the gold of the sun feathers yielding to the misty violet, the ash of burnt dreams. This is followed by the passage from the world of death to the ardent and passionate life (“Burnt-offering Fire”) giving birth to poems dedicated to free, intoxicating, lyrical, rejected love accompanied by medieval romantic colors (“Your Enamel Profile”, “To the Street Jilt”, “Tagharan” (Poems)). This set of poems is closed by the poem dedicated to the native country, I love the sun-backed taste of Armenian words... Love towards the country is the greatest love beyond all other mortal loves. This poem is the fusion of Armenia’s history and nature. By using visible qualities the poet makes it incarnate: it is the past, the present, the future and eternity. It is the universal portrait of Armenia, the living reflection of national biography. The prominent Armenian writer William Saroyan wrote of this poem: “Up to this day it is the most beautiful song, dedicated to our country, our land, our history, the praising prayer, a prayer like “Our Lord’s””. Yearning to put the life of his nation to a new direction, Charents wrote a novel, “The Land of Nairi” dedicated to the recent history of Kars, his native city. Its premise is the historical-political situation of Armenia, the dream of free, independent and united country. The collection entitled “Epic Daybreak” touches upon the question of bringing the psychology of the living, suffering, real man into literature. The author glorifies the abundant completeness of life, which one needs to live and love in all the strength of feelings. Many of his words and thoughts have become national slogans and emblems of Armenian unity. The poem entitled “Testament” contains a hidden message to the Armenian people - the second letters of each line, read from top to bottom, spell out “Oh Armenian people your only salvation is in your collective strength”. The last book he published, “Book of the Road” is the general summary of the poet’s life, containing reflections on Armenia’s past, the folk epic David of Sassoon, verses on art, and cultural, philosophical lyrics. With philosophical insight he reexamines the fighting journey of his people passed through cross-roads of history, emphasizes the role of the creative individual in the history of the people, shows the impact of political incidents of the time on the national fate. It includes ten poems, collections entitled “Poems and Advices”, “Various Poems and Translations”. Not long after the release of “Book of the Road” Yeghishe Charents was arrested and died at the age of 40 as a victim of the Stalinist regime.
I Love the Sun Sweet Taste of Armenia

I love the sun-backed taste of Armenian words,
the lilt of our ancient lutes in sweet laments,
our blood-red, fragrant roses bending
as in Nayirian dances, danced still by our girls.

I love the deep night sky, our lakes of light,

the winter winds that howl like dragons exhaling fire.
The meanest huts with blackened walls are dear to me;
each of the thousand year old city stones.

Wherever I go, I take our mournful music,

our steel forged letters turned to prayers.
However, sharp my wounds or drained of blood
or orphaned, my yearning heart turns there with love.

There is no brow, no mind, like Narek's, Koutchak's,

No mountain peak like Ararat's.
Search the world there is no crest so white, so holy.
So like an unreached road to glory, Masis mountain that I love.

Yeghishe Charents

Snow-wrapped mountains and blue lakes,

Skies like dreams of the soul,
Skies like children's eyes.
I was alone. You were with me.

When I heard the whispers of the lake,

And looked unceasingly into the distance,
There rose in me that old longing
For you, that dream, holy, star-filled, infinite.

In the clear evocative sunset

I called, called to the snow covered mountains;
Night fell, darkening the distance,
Mingling my soul with the starry dark.


ÒÛáõݳå³ï É»éÝ»ñ áõ ϳåáõÛï É×»ñ:

ºñÏÇÝùÝ»ñ, áñå»ë »ñ³½Ý»ñ Ñá·áõ:

ºñÏÇÝùÝ»ñ, áñå»ë Ù³ÝÏ³Ï³Ý ³ã»ñ:

Ø»Ý³Ï ¿Ç »ë: ÆÝÓ Ñ»ï ¿Çñ ¹áõ:

ºñµ ÉëáõÙ ¿Ç ÙñÙáõÝçÁ É×Ç

àõ ݳÛáõÙ ¿Ç ó÷³ÝóÇÏ Ñ»éáõÝ,

¼³ñÃÝáõÙ ¿ñ ÇÙ Ù»ç ùá ëáõñµ ³ÝáõñçÇ

γñáïÁ ³ÛÝ ÑÇÝ, ³ëïÕ³ÛǯÝ, ³ÝÑá¯õÝ:

γÝãáõÙ ¿ñ, ϳÝãáõÙ ÓÛáõÝáï É»éÝ»ñáõÙ

Ø»ÏÁ ϳñáïÇ ÇñÇÏݳÙáõïÇÝ:

ÆëÏ ·Çß»ñÝ ÇçÝáõÙ, ͳÍÏáõÙ ¿ñ Ñ»éáõÝ`

ʳéÝ»Éáí Ñá·Çë ³ëïÕ³ÛÇÝ ÙáõÃÇÝ…

Our Language

Our language is flexible and barbaric
masculine and rough. At the same
time keeps an inner light, a lighthouse
lit with an eternal flame.

Honorable, ingenious craftsmen

have carved its ancient stones
for centuries, so they shine
like crystal. Sometimes weather blown

mountain rock, always with its own

animus. Today, it is by design,
if we chip it, to stop rust
from settling on our minds.

Neither Narek's rustling parchment

nor Toumanian's bright Lori-grown
dialect can sheathe its modern spirit
--not even Derian's silken tone.

But wait. From the iron harvest

our new language will be honed
to hold the deep and homesick thoughts
that are ours, ours alone.

غð Ⱥ¼àôÜ

Ø»ñ É»½áõÝ ×ÏáõÝ ¿ áõ µ³ñµ³ñáë,

²éÝ³Ï³Ý ¿, ÏáåÇï, µ³Ûó ÙÇ»õÝáÛÝ å³ÑÇÝ

ä³ÛÍ³é ¿ ݳ, áñå¿ë Ùßï³µáñµáù ÷³ñáë,

ì³éáõ³Í Ññáí ³Ýß¿ç ¹³ñ»ñáõÙ ÑÇÝ£-

ºõ í³ñå»ïÝ»ñ, ËáݳñÑ áõ ѳÝ׳ñ»Õ,

ÚÕÏ»É »Ý ³ÛÝ ¹³ñ»ñ, áñå¿ë Ù³ñÙ³ñ,

ºõ ÷³ÛÉ»É ¿ ݳ Ù»ñÃ, ÇÝãå¿ë µÇõñ»Õ,

Ø»ñà Ïáåï³ó»É, ÇÝãå¿ë É»éݳÛÇÝ ù³ñ£

´³Ûó ÙÇßï å³Ñ»É ¿ ݳ Çñ ϻݹ³ÝÇ á·ÇÝ,-

ºõ »Ã¿ Ù»Ýù ³Ûëûñ Ïáïñ³ïáõÙ »Ýù ³ÛÝ Ù»ñÃ,

²Û¹ Ýñ³ÝÇó ¿, áñ áõ½áõÙ »Ýù Ù»ñ

Üáñ ËáÑ»ñÇ íñ³Û ijݷ ããáùÇ£-

²Û¹ Ýñ³ÝÇó ¿, áñ Ù»ñ ³Ûëûñáõ³Û á·áõÝ

²ÛÉ»õë ãÇ Ï³ñáÕ ÉÇÝ»É å³ï»³Ý

à°ã î¿ñ»³ÝÇ µ³ñµ³éÁ Ýáõ³·áõÝ,

à°ã ܳñ»ÏÇ ßáõÝãÁ Ù³·³Õ³Ã»³Û£-

ºõ á°ã ³Ý·³Ù Èáéáõ å³ÛÍ³é »ñ·Çã

Âáõٳݻ³ÝÇ µ³ñµ³éÁ ·»ÕçϳϳÝ,-

´³Ûó ݳ ÏÁ ·³Û - É»½áõÝ ³Ûë »ñϳû³Û µ»ñùÇ

ºõ ËáÑ»ñÇ ³Ûë Ëá¯ñ áõ »ñÏñ³Ï³Ù...


I have put out so many fires in my eyes

And so many stars have I put out in my desperate soul.
Don't curse my life as you leave - it's just a memory now,
My life will pass and fade away, but my song will live on.

My life will pass and fade away like a fire in a swamp,

Inconsolable and dull, without hope, without aim.
In my songs no one recognizes me, you know,
As if it were another singing the blue longing of my soul.

Forever mute and estranged, I have wandered in silence.

No one, no one knows who I am, what my life is about.
All they know is in my life I have written a few songs,
As I know that you exist, as I know that you are loved.

I have sung to your soul, to your luminous smile, 

To the sacred sadness of your eyes and your face.
My life abandoned in infinity, I have sung the profound love 
And the longing of my arms that could never reach you.

Oh, sister, my foggy evening is coming closer,

How can I stop my longing soul from weeping?
How, how can I accept the drained cup of my fate,
So that my hands do not shake, so that my days forgive me?

And what if suddenly I start doubting myself,

And my sacred longing for you begins to feel like a lie?
Whatever happens, sister, don't curse, when we part,
The pitiable longing of my arms that could never reach you.


кè²òàôØÆ Êàêøºð

ÆÙ ³ãù»ñÇ Ù»ç ³ÛÝù³Ý Ïñ³ÏÝ»ñ »Ù Ù³ñ»É »ë
ºí Ñá·áõë Ù»ç, Ñáõë³Ñ³ï, ³ÛÝù³Ý ³ëïÕ»ñ »Ù Ù³ñ»É:
ÎÛ³Ýùë, áñ Ñáõß ¿ ¹³ñÓ»É, Ñ»é³Ý³ÉÇë ã³ÝÇÍ»ë.
ÎÛ³Ýùë ϳÝóÝÇ, ÏÙ³ñÇ - µ³Ûó »ñ·ë ϳ, ϳåñÇ ¹»é:

ÎÛ³Ýùë ϳÝóÝÇ, ÏÙ³ñÇ, áñå»ë Ïñ³Ï ׳ÑÇ×áõÙ`

²ÝÝå³ï³Ï áõ ï³ñï³Ù, ³ÝÙËÇóñ áõ ³ÝÑáõÛë:
ºñ·»ñÇë Ù»ç - ¹áõ ·Çï»±ë - ÇÝÓ áã áù ãÇ ×³Ý³ãáõÙ`
γñÍ»ë áõñÇßÝ ¿ »ñ·áõ٠ϳåáõÛï ϳñáïÁ Ñá·áõë:

гíÇïÛ³Ý ·áó áõ ³ÝËáë` ó÷³é»É »Ù áõ Éé»É.

àã áù, áã á°ù ã·Çï»` ³ñ¹Ûáù DZÝã ¿ ÏÛ³Ýùë, »ë.
ØdzÛÝ ·Çï»Ý, áñ ÏÛ³ÝùáõÙ ÇÝã-áñ »ñ·»ñ »Ù ·ñ»É,
ÆÝãå»ë ·Çï»Ù, áñ ¹áõ ϳë, áñ ëÇñáõÙ ¿ Ù»ÏÁ ù»½:

ºë »ñ·»É »Ù ùá Ñá·ÇÝ, ùá ÅåÇïÁ Éáõë³íáñ,

øá ³ãù»ñÇ, ùá ¹»ÙùÇ ïËñáõÃÛáõÝÁ ëñµ³½³Ý.
ÎÛ³Ýùë ÃáÕ³Í ³ÝÑáõÝáõÙ - »ë »ñ·»É »Ù ë»ñÁ Ëáñ
àõ ϳñáïÁ è»ñÇë, áñ »ñµ»ù ù»½ ãѳë³Ý®

Øáï»ÝáõÙ ¿, ùáõ°Ûñ ÇÙ, ³Ë, ÇñÇÏáõÝë ÙÇ·³Ù³Í.

ºë DZÝ㠳ݻÙ, áñ Ñá·Çë ãÑ»ÍÏÉï³ Ï³ñáïÇó.
ÆÝãå»±ë, ÇÝãå»±ë Áݹáõݻ٠ÏÛ³ÝùÇë µ³Å³ÏÁ ù³Ù³Í,
àñ Ó»éù»ñë ã¹áÕ³Ý, áñ ûñ»ñë Ý»ñ»Ý ÇÝÓ:

¶áõó» ѳÝϳñÍ Ï³ëϳͻÙ, ãѳí³ï³Ù ÇÝùë, »ë,

àõ ëáõï Ãí³ ÇÙ Ñá·áõÝ ùá ϳñáïÁ ëñµ³½³Ý®
- ÆÝã ¿É ÉÇÝÇ, ùáõ°Ûñ ÇÙ, ùáõ°Ûñ, Ñ»é³Ý³ÉÇë ã³ÝÇÍ»ë
Ê»Õ× Ï³ñáïÁ è»ñÇë, áñ »ñµ»ù ù»½ ãѳë³Ý®




Girl like a lampshade – with the Virgin Mary’s eyes,

Tubercular, transparent, a body in a dream,
Girl – blue, agate, milky, enchanting, 
Girl like a lampshade …

What can I do, what can I do so that my soul doesn’t die,

So that my soul doesn’t burn out in your agate eyes?
What can I do to keep the rainbow tricolored,
To keep the depth of my soul from fading and burning?

Girl like a lampshade – with the Virgin Mary’s eyes,

Tubercular, transparent, a body in a dream,
Girl – blue, agate, milky, enchanting, 
Girl like a lampshade …


Èàôê²ØöàöÆ äºê ²ÔæÆÎ

Èáõë³Ù÷á÷Ç å»ë ³ÕçÇÏ` ³ëïí³Í³Ùáñ ³ãù»ñáí,
Âáù³Ëï³íáñ, ó÷³ÝóÇÏ, Ù³ñÙÇÝÇ å»ë »ñ³½Ç,
γåáõ°Ûï ³ÕçÇÏ, ³Ï³ÃÇ áõ ϳÃÇ å»ë Ñá·»Ãáí,
Èáõë³Ù÷á÷Ç å»ë ³ÕçÇÏ®

ºë DZÝ㠳ݻÙ, DZÝ㠳ݻÙ, áñ ãÙ»éÝÇ ÇÙ Ñá·ÇÝ,

àñ ãÙ³ñÇ ÇÙ Ñá·ÇÝ ùá ³Ï³Ã» ³ãù»ñáõÙ.
ºë DZÝ㠳ݻÙ, áñ Ùݳ ÍdzͳÝÁ »ñ»ù·áõÛÝ,
àñ ãóݹÇ, ãÙ³ñÇ ÇÙ Ñá·áõ Ñ»éáõÝ®

Èáõë³Ù÷á÷Ç å»ë ³ÕçÇÏ` ³ëïí³Í³Ùáñ ³ãù»ñáí,

Âáù³Ëï³íáñ, ó÷³ÝóÇÏ, Ù³ñÙÇÝÇ å»ë »ñ³½Ç,
γåáõ°Ûï ³ÕçÇÏ, ³Ï³ÃÇ áõ ϳÃÇ å»ë Ñá·»Ãáí,
Èáõë³Ù÷á÷Ç å»ë ³ÕçÇÏ®


Blue is the soul's prayer, sister,

Blue is sorrow.
Blue is longing, transparent and pure,
Clear and immaculate.

Blue is the morning, infinite and wet, 

Of a sister's eyes.
My soul in the blue helplessly wept
On one ancient night. 

Blue is the ringing of the morning bell

Calling for prayer.
Blue is a tear, blue is the dew
Of soul and heaven.

Through blue true words flow

From heaven to heaven.
In the labyrinth of the blue 
My soul - a sanctified seal.

Whatever is not, and has yet to come

In a child's heart-
Flows like wine of light
In the blue of the soul. 




γåáõÛïÁ Ñá·áõ ³ÕáóÝùÝ ¿, ùáõÛñ,
γåáõÛïÁ - óËÇÍ.
γåáõÛïÁ - ϳñáï ó÷³ÝóÇÏ, Ù³ùáõñ,
àõ Ñëï³Ï, áõ çÇÝç:

γåáõÛïÁ ùñáç ³ãù»ñÇ ³ÝÑáõÝ

²é³íáïÝ ¿ óó:
γåáõÛïáõÙ Ñá·Çë ÙÇ ÑÇÝ ÇñÇÏáõÝ
²Ý½áñ Ñ»ÍÏÉï³ó:

γåáõÛïÁ Í»·ÇÝ ³ÕáÃùÇ Ï³ÝãáÕ

ÔáÕ³ÝçÝ ¿ ½³Ý·Ç:
γåáõÛïÁ - ³ñóáõÝù, áõ ϳåáõÛïÁ - óáÕ
Ðá·áõ, »ñÏÝùÇ:

γåáõÛïáõÙ ³Ýëáõï Ëáëù»ñ »Ý ÑáëáõÙ

ºñÏÝùÇó - »ñÏÇÝù:
Ðá·Çë - γåáõÛïÇ É³µÇñÇÝÃáëáõÙ
êñµ³ó³Í ÏÝÇù:

²ÛÝ, áñ ãÇ »Õ»É, áñ å»°ïù ¿ ÉÇÝÇ

سÝÏ³Ï³Ý ëñïáõÙ -
ÐáëáõÙ ¿, áñå»ë Éáõë³íáñ ·ÇÝÇ -
Ðá·áõ ϳåáõÛïáõÙ:

Travelers of the Milky Way

We are two travelers of the Milky Way,

Two travelers in rags.
We have cherished the sadness of our souls,
Full of nostalgic dreams and love.
We have cherished the sadness of our souls,
These nostalgic dreams and this love.
And from early morning until darkness falls,
We like to wander and forever dream.
Our eyes have held the magic sight
Of distant and heavenly paths,
As we tread these earthly roads
Where countless souls once dreamt and now are gone.
Our childhood vanished like a haze,
Sunless, disconsolate and gray-
Our childhood vanished in delirium,
And we went away. We can never return.
We left in silence and tirelessly walked,
Envisioning eternal distance.
Our life became an everlasting quest -
Absurd, unusual and dark.
And in these piebald, varied days
Our hearts burned with life so many times,
But our eyes saw no sun
And our hearts, no distant lights.
Our misty eyes forever searched
The gilded paths of the Milky Way,
And its boundless, infinite span
In the eyes of every passerby.
But in those eyes we never glimpsed heaven,
Nor in their hearts a golden sun.
And our orphaned, agonizing hearts
Broke into pieces from their lifeless gaze.
I wanted to sing praises to God
And the glory of luminous love and bread -
My heart swelled… But instead
I sang the anguish of these gloomy days…
And the legend of an infinite blue-eyed happiness -
The story of a heavenly connection,-
Remained forever buried in my eyes-
My heart hardened, turned barren and dark.
No one understood us in this life-
They laughed at our shining eyes,
They jeered at our burning longings
And retreated. Not one brought us a sliver of light.
The sister laughed, the friend mocked,
The stranger cursed and hurried past.
Only the whore granted us a kiss,
And the madman murmured a greeting in the mist.
But never mind that our days passed like a fever,
And our life became an inconsolable delirium-
We shall smile, happily smile as we die
For we dreamed in our dreams and went away.


гñ¹³·áÕÇ ×³Ù÷áñ¹Ý»ñ »Ýù Ù»Ýù »ñÏáõª
ºñÏáõ ׳Ù÷áñ¹ª å³ï³éáï³Í ßáñ»ñáí:
àõ ëÇñ»É »Ýù ïñïÙáõÃÛáõÝÁ Ù»ñ Ñá·áõª
²Ýñç³Ï³Ý ϳñáïÝ»ñáí áõ ëÇñáí:
Ø»Ýù ëÇñ»É »Ýù ïñïÙáõÃÛáõÝÁ Ù»ñ Ñá·áõª
²Ýñç³Ï³Ý ÇÝã-áñ ϳñáï, ÇÝã-áñ ë»ñ:
àõ ëÇñáõÙ »Ýù ³é³íáïÇó ÇñÇÏáõÝ
Ö³Ù÷³ »ñÃ³É - áõ ѳíÇïÛ³Ý »ñ³½»É:
²ãù»ñÇë Ù»ç Ù»Ýù å³Ñ»É »Ýù »ñÏݳÛÇÝ
Ö³Ù÷³Ý»ñÇ Ñ»éáõÝ»ñÁ ¹ÛáõÃ³Ï³Ý -
àõ ³ÝóÝáõÙ »Ýù áõÕÇÝ»ñáí »ñÏñ³ÛÇÝ,
àõñ µÛá¯õñ Ù³ñ¹ÇÏ »ñ³½»óÇÝ áõ ãϳÝ:
ØßáõßÇ å»ë Ù»ñ Ù³ÝÏáõÃÛáõÝÁ ³Ýó³íª
¶áñß, ³Ý³ñ»õ, ³ÝÙËÇóñ Ù³ÝÏáõÃÛáõÝ:
¼³é³Ýó³ÝùÇ å»ë Ù³ÝÏáõÃÛáõÝÁ ³Ýó³í -
àõ Ñ»é³ó³Ýù: àõ ã»Ýù ¹³éݳ ÏñÏÇÝ ïáõÝ:
Èá¯õé Ñ»é³ó³Ýù áõ ù³ÛÉ»óÇÝù ³Ý¹³¹ñáõÙª
ºñ³½»Éáí ѳí»ñÅ³Ï³Ý Ñ»éáõÝ»ñ:
ÎÛ³ÝùÁ ¹³ñÓ³í ѳí»ñÅ³Ï³Ý ÙÇ ÷ÝïñáõÙ -
ØáõÃ, ³ÝѻûÃ, ï³ñûñÇÝ³Ï ÏÛ³ÝùÁ Ù»ñ:
àõ ûñ»ñáõÙ µ³½Ù³·áõÛÝ áõ µ³½Ù³½³Ý
ì³éí»ó, í³éí»ó áÕç³ÏǽíáÕ ëÇñïÁ Ù»ñ,-
´³Ûó ³ãù»ñÁ Ù»ñ - ³ñ»õÝ»ñ ãï»ë³Ý,
ºí Ù»ñ ëñï»ñÁ - Éáõë³íáñ Ñ»éáõÝ»ñ:
àõ Ùßáõßáï Ù»ñ ³ãù»ñÁ ѳíÇïÛ³Ý
àñáÝ»óÇÝ å³ï³Ñ³Ï³Ý ³ãù»ñáõÙ
гñ¹³·áÕÇ áõÕÇÝ»ñÁ áëϻٳÝ,
Üñ³ ³ÝÍÇñ, ³ÝͳÛñ³ÍÇñ ³ÛÝ Ñ»éáõÝ:
´³Ûó ³ãù»ñáõÙ Ýñ³Ýù »ñÏÇÝù ã·ï³Ý,
àõ ëñï»ñáõÙ - ³ñ»·³ÏÝ»ñ áëÏ»í³é.
àõ µ½Ïïí»ó ѳ۳óùÝ»ñÇó ³Ýϻݹ³Ý
àñµ ëÇñïÁ Ù»ñª »ñ³½áñ»Ý - Ñá·»í³ñ:
ºë áõ½»óÇ »ñ·»É ·áíùÁ ²ëïÍáõ,
ºñ·»É ÷³éùÁ å³Ûͳé ëÇñá áõ ѳóÇ.
êÇñïë Éóí»ó... µ³Ûó ã·Çï»Ù, û ÇÝãáõ -
¶áñß ûñ»ñÇ ï³ÕïÏáõÃÛáõÝÁ »ñ·»óÇ...
³Õí³Í Ùݳó ÇÙ ³ãù»ñáõÙ ÙÇ ³ÝÑáõÝ,
γåáõï³ãÛ³ »ñç³ÝÏáõÃÛ³Ý ³é³ëå»É.
ØÇ »ñÏݳÛÇÝ ³éÝãáõÃÛ³Ý å³ïÙáõÃÛáõÝ -
àõ ϳñÍñ³ó³í ëÇñïëª ³ÝÉáõÛë áõ ³Ýµ»ñ:
⿱ áñ ÏÛ³ÝùáõÙ ãѳëϳó³í áã áù Ù»½,-
àõ Ëݹ³óÇÝ Éáõë³íá°ñ Ù»ñ ³ãù»ñÇÝ,
´áõà ѻ·Ý»óÇÝ Ù»ñ ϳñáïÝ»ñÁ ÑñÏ»½ -
àõ Ñ»é³ó³Ý: àõ á°ã ÙÇ ÉáõÛë ãµ»ñÇÝ:
øáõÛñÁ Ëݹ³ó, µ³ñ»Ï³ÙÁ ÍÇͳջó,
úï³ñ Ù³ñ¹ÇÏ Ñ³ÛÑáÛ»óÇÝ áõ ³Ýó³Ý:
ØdzÛÝ åáéÝÇÏÁ Ùßáõßáõ٠ѳٵáõñ»ó,
ºí ˻ɳ·³ñÁ µ³ñ»õ»ó ÏÇë³Ó³ÛÝ:
Ðá· ã¿, áñ Ù»ñ ûñ»ñÝ ³Ýó³Ý ï»Ý¹Ç å»ë,
ÎÛ³ÝùÁ ¹³ñÓ³í ³ÝÙËÇóñ ½³é³Ýó³Ýù.
-Ø»Ýù ÏÅåï³Ýù, ·á¯Ñ ÏÅåï³Ýù Ù»éÝ»ÉÇë,
àñ »ñ³½áõÙ »ñ³½»óÇÝù áõ ³Ýó³Ýù...


"And your soul like wine

   Will inundate their black 
   And morbid floor."
    The Feast, Ballad I

Would you like me to sing

For you
- Now?
I sing so that you feel 
Whatever you want -
Be it love or death.
I sing to move your hearts.
I give my song of light 
To you all,
Even to the last whore.
Do you like at all
This bearish tenderness 
Of mine? 

I sing despite myself.

Whatever I sing - whether about love, 
Or death, 
It is never fake.

Listen to my songs,

Here they are:
Listen but don't get
I don't want you to get drunk.
It is not good, you know, 
When an infinite yearning turns into a cloying 

Don't you understand?

Alas, alas  - but you must
We need to fly? - but where to? 
Don't you understand?
I want my luminous
To seem like paper and ink to you. 
Don't you understand?
But you must!

Nothing else. 

And now
It’s the same again
I sing to move your hearts.
I sing despite myself.
Whatever I sing - be it love
Or death.

I am a buffoon now.


àõ ·ÇÝáõ å»ë ùá Ñá·ÇÝ
Ðáñ¹ Ïó÷íÇ Ýñ³Ýó ÙáõÃ
àõ ٳѳÑáï ѳï³ÏÇÝ:
Êñ³Ë׳Ýù¦, µ³Éɳ¹ 1-ÇÝ

Îá±õ½»ù - »ñ·»Ù`

¼»½ ѳٳñ,
²ÛÝå»ë »ñ·»Ù, áñ ½·³ù -
Æ°Ýã áñ Ïáõ½»ù, Ïáõ½»ù - ë»ñ,
Îáõ½»ù - Ù³Ñ:
ºë »ñ·áõÙ »Ù, áñ Ñáõ½»Ù.
î³ÉÇë »Ù »ñ·ë Éáõë»
àõ°Ù áñ Ïáõ½»ù. ûÏáõ½ ݳ
ÈÇÝÇ åáéÝÇÏÁ í»ñçÇÝ.
¸áõñ ãDZ ·³ÉÇë Ó»½ ÙÇû
²Ûë ùÝùßáõÃÛáõÝÁ -

ºë »ñ·áõÙ »Ù ³Ï³Ù³:

Æ°Ýã ¿É »ñ·»Ù. Ïáõ½»ù - ë»ñ,
Îáõ½»ù - Ù³Ñ: -
´³Ûó ã»°Ù Ï»ÕÍáõÙ »ë »ñµ»ù:

Èë»°ù »ñ·»ñë -

²Ñ³ -
Èë»ù »ñ·»ñë, µ³Ûó û -
ºë ã»Ù áõ½áõÙ, áñ ѳñµ»ù.
ȳí ã¿, ·Çï»±ù, »ñµ ÙÇ
²ÝÑáõÝ Ï³ñáï ¹³éÝáõÙ ¿ ù³Õóñ

â»±ù ѳëϳÝáõÙ:

ƽáõñ, ǽáõñ: ¸áõù å»°ïù ¿ áñ
Âéã»±É ¿ å»ïù. ë³Ï³ÛÝ á±õñ: -
â»±ù ѳëϳÝáõÙ. »ë Ïáõ½»Ù,
àñ ÇÙ »ñ·»ñÁ
Èáõë» -
Ò»½ ÃáõÕà Ãí³Ý áõ óݳù:
â»±ù ѳëϳÝáõÙ- ¸áõù å»°ïù ¿ áñ

àõñÇß - áãÇÝã:

àõ ÑÇÙ³ -
Üáõ°ÛÝÝ ¿ ÝáñÇó. »ë »ñ·áõÙ »Ù, áñ Ñáõ½»Ù:
ºë »ñ·áõÙ »Ù - ³Ï³Ù³:
Æ°Ýã ¿É »ñ·»Ù. Ïáõ½»ù - ë»ñ,
Îáõ½»ù - Ù³Ñ:

ºë - Ë»Õϳï³Ï »Ù ÑÇÙ³®




The two of us, the two of us, in this world with no return, 
Live, exist, wherever we go - the destination is the same. 

Stop, traveler, wait, let's look at each other, stay there, stand. 

Maybe we'll smile all of a sudden, as we recognize an unknown friend.

Stop. Stop. Where are you rushing, where are you running so fast?

Look closely, perhaps you will find the fire of a golden smile in my eyes.

Aren't you glad that we both lived and met each other in this world?

Stop, don’t go away, like an unreturning one-way road.

I too will go on, lonely and sad, down the endless path of dreams 

Which this evening you have followed blindly and disappeared in the mist.

You passed by, you didn't look and disappeared in the haze,

But I will forever remember your unfamiliar, unknown face.

I will remember that somebody crossed my wandering path.

A chance passerby. It was evening, it was evening, misty and sad.


ä²î²Ð²Î²Ü ²Üòàð¸ÆÜ

Ø»Ýù »ñÏáõ°ëë ¿É, Ù»Ýù »ñÏáõ°ëë ¿É ³Ýí»ñ³¹³ñÓ ³ß˳ñÑáõÙ
²åñáõÙ »Ýù, ϳÝù, ·ÝáõÙ »Ýù - á±õñ, ÙǨÝáõÛÝÝ ¿ Ù»ñ Ñ»éáõÝ:

γݷÝÇñ, ³Ýóáñ¹: γݷÝÇñ: ܳۻÝù: ܳۻÝù Çñ³ñ - ·áõó» Ù»Ýù

гÝϳñÍ Ååï³Ýù` ã׳ݳãí³Í ÙÇ µ³ñ»Ï³Ù ׳ݳã»Ýù:

γݷÝÇ°ñ, ϳݷÝÇ°ñ, á±õñ »ë í³½áõÙ, á±õñ »ë ·ÝáõÙ ¹áõ ³ñ³·.

²ãù»ñÇë Ù»ç ·áõó» ·ïÝ»ë áëÏ»ÄåÇï ÙÇ Ïñ³Ï:

¸áõ áõñ³Ë ã»±ë, áñ ³åñáõÙ »Ýù - áõ ѳݹÇå»É »Ýù Çñ³ñ,

à±õñ »ë ³ÝóÝáõÙ ³Ýí»ñ³¹³ñÓ, áñå»ë ³Ý¹³ñÓ ×³Ý³å³ñÑ

º°ë ¿É ϳÝóݻ٠- ïñïáõ٠ٻݳÏ, - áõ Ϸݳ٠ÇÙ ³ÝͳÛñ

ºñ³½ - ׳Ù÷³Ý, áñáí ¹áõ ¿É ³Ûë ÇñÇÏáõÝ ÏáõÛñ ³Ýó³ñ:

¸áõ ÏáõÛñ ³Ýó³ñ, ãݳۻóÇñ áõ Ñ»é³ó³ñ ÙßáõßáõÙ.

´³Ûó »ë »ñϳñ ùá ³ÝͳÝáÃ, ûï³ñ ¹»ÙùÁ ÏÑÇß»Ù:

ÎÑÇß»Ù, áñ ¹»·»ñáõÙÇë ׳ݳå³ñÑÇÝ, áñå»ë Ñáõß,

Ø»ÏÁ ³Ýó³í, ÇñÇÏáõÝ ¿ñ. ÇñÇÏáõÝ ¿ñ áõ Ùßáõß®




The wind,

The autumn wind
Lashes its yellow stallions.

Somewhere now

It gathers its weighty soul
And in the autumnal agony 
Draws its last breath from a gigantic maw.

The wind,

The autumn wind
And giant heaps of dust chase each other
Like herds in panic.

The wind,

The autumn wind…
The city dark and gloomy.
Every passerby is a yellow delirium
Dreamed by the wind in the evening haze.

The endless streets,

Monotonous like the autumn rains,
The streets in rows,
The streets here, now,
The cruel streets, repugnant and evil,
They are so, so, so frightening now!

The wind, 

The autumn wind
Is wandering lost.
And wounded by fear of death
It might destroy every barrier,
The wind,
The autumn wind ... 


Frenetically shakes the tarnished signboards,
Windows echo fearful and strident vibrations,
And the wind flies like an iron winged bird
Through dreadful and loathsome streets.

Swirling, lost in abandoned streets,

Full of awesome revenge and fury,
Like a giant panther tracking his foe,
Dust and bloodstained sand in its glances,
The wind, the autumn wind now assails
The boulevards helplessly crouched.

Oh, the sick and orphaned trees on the boulevard,

Like old women in rags,
Lacerate their yellow tresses
And shake their heads with grief!

The trees sick and old,

The trees crooked and dry,
The trees poor and stripped like beggars:
The wind strikes their decrepit heads
And shrieks the ill omen of death.

Oh, have mercy now

On these trees crucified on the desolate boulevards,
Oh, save them from the blows of the wind
That bring them mortal grief and death!

Oh, have mercy now!

Listen, listen, listen...
In this awful and cruel hour of agony,
It will return and invade your souls -
The wind,
The autumn wind.



²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ
ÂéóÝáõÙ ¿ ¹»ÕÇÝ ÝÅáõÛ·Ý»ñÁ Çñ³:

ÆÝã-áñ ÙÇ ï»Õ ÑÇÙ³

гí³ù»É ¿ Ç ÙÇ
àõ ÷ãáõÙ ¿ ³ßÝ³Ý Ñá·»í³ñùÇ Å³ÙÇÝ
Æñ ³Ñé»ÉÇ Ñá·ÇÝ ÙÇ íÇÃ˳ñÇ µ»ñ³Ý:

²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ

ÐéݹáõÙ ¿ ÑÇÙ³.
öáßáõ Ñëϳ ¹»½»ñ ÷³ËóÁÝáõÙ »Ý Çñ³ñ
ê³ñë³÷³Ñ³ñ ¹³ñÓ³Í Ý³ËÇñÝ»ñÇ ÝÙ³Ý:

²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ®

ø³Õ³ùÁ ·áñß áõ ÙáõÃ:
²Ù»Ý ³Ýóáñ¹ ¹»ÕÇÝ ½³é³Ýó³Ýù ¿ ÑÇÙÇ°,
àñ ÇñÇÏí³ Ù»·ÇÝ »ñ³½í»É ¿ ù³ÙáõÝ:

öáÕáóÝ»ñÁ »ñϳñ,

àõ Ó³ÝÓñ³ÉÇ, ³ßÝ³Ý ³ÝÓñ¨Ý»ñÇ ÝÙ³Ý,
öáÕáóÝ»ñÁ, áñ ϳÝ,
öáÕáóÝ»ñÇ Ý»ñϳÝ,
öáÕáóÝ»ñÁ` ¹³Å³Ý, ³ÝÑñ³åáõÛñ, ã³ñϳÙ, -
àñù³Ý, áñù³Ý, áñù³Ý ³Ñ³íáñ »Ý ÑÇÙ³:

²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ

ØáÉáñí»É ¿ ³Ûëï»Õ.
سÑí³Ý ë³ñëáõé ³é³Í íÇñ³íáñ ¿ ݳ ÙÇ:
àõ ϳñáÕ ¿ ÑÇÙ³ ³Ù»Ý ³ñ·»Éù ù³Ý¹»É
²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ®

ÐéݹáõÙ ¿,

²Ñ»Õ³óáõÝó óÝóáõÙ óáõó³Ý³ÏÝ»ñÁ ãáñ.
¼ñÝ·áõÙ »Ý ³ÑÇó å³ïáõѳÝÝ»ñÝ ÑÝãáõÝ,
àõ ÃéãáõÙ ¿ ù³ÙÇÝ, - »ñϳóè ÃéãáõÝ, -
¼³ñÑáõñ»ÉÇ, ½³½Çñ ÷áÕáóÝ»ñÇ ÙÇçáí®

ʻɳåïáõÛï, ³ÝÙ³ñ¹ ÷áÕáóÝ»ñáõÙ Ïáñ³Í,

¼³ñÑáõñ»ÉÇ áËáí áõ ½³ÛñáõÛÃáí Çñ³,
àñå»ë áëáË ï»ë³Í ÙÇ íÇÃ˳ñÇ Ñáí³½,
г۳óùÝ»ñáõÙ‘ ÷áßÇ ¨ ³ñݳÙáõÅ ³í³½, -
ø³ÙÇÝ, ³ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ Ñ³ñÓ³ÏíáõÙ ¿ ³Ñ³
²Ýû·Ý³Ï³Ý Ïù³Í µáõÉí³ñÝ»ñÇ íñ³:

ú, µáõÉí³ñÇ ÑÇí³Ý¹ ͳé»ñÁ áñµ áõ Ë»ÝÃ,

òÝóáïÇÝ»ñ ѳ·³Í å³é³íÝ»ñÇ ÝÙ³Ý, -
Ìí³ïáõÙ »Ý Ýñ³Ýù ¹»ÕÇÝ Ù³½»ñÝ Çñ»Ýó,
¶ÉáõËÝ»ñÁ óÝóáõÙ áõ ÙáñÙáùáõÙ ÑÇÙ³:

̳é»ñÁ Í»ñ, ÑÇí³Ý¹,

̳é»ñÁ Íáõé áõ ãáñ,
Øáõñ³óϳÝÇ ÝÙ³Ý Í³é»ñÁ Ë»Õ× áõ Ù»ñÏ.
ø³ÙÇÝ Í»ÍáõÙ ¿ Í»ñ ·ÉáõËÝ»ñÁ Ýñ³Ýó
àõ ×ãáõÙ ¿ Ù³Ñí³Ý ã³ñ³·áõß³Ï ×ãáí, -

ú, ·Ã³ó»ù ÑÇÙ³.

²Û¹ ͳé»ñÇÝ` ˳ãí³Í µáõÉí³ñÝ»ñÇÝ ³Ù³,
ú, ÷ñÏ»ó»°ù Ýñ³Ýó ѳñí³ÍÝ»ñÇó ù³Ùáõ,
àñ µ»ñáõÙ ¿ Ýñ³Ýó Ù³Ñí³Ý ÙáñÙáù áõ Ù³Ñ:

ú, ·Ã³ó»°ù ÑÇÙ³.

Èë»ù, Éë»ù, Éë»ù. -
²Ûë ³Ñé»ÉÇ, ¹³Å³Ý Ñá·¨³ñùÇ Å³ÙÇÝ`
äÇïÇ ¹³éݳ, áñ Ó»ñ Ñá·ÇÝ»°ñÁ ËáõÅ» -
²ßÝ³Ý ù³ÙÇÝ®

“... Will you accept alone

        This new Golgotha?”
                          Vahan Terian

Where are you carrying your black wooden Cross,

Oh, my tormented Soul? - is there a new Golgotha
That you shall mount with pride - and people will admire 
Your luminous crown with infinite love?

Are you ascending the mount today as Jesus?

Or... just a robber condemned to death?
Is every man today a Pilate
Washing his hands of you?

What crown of light?... And how will you, my Soul,

Ascend Golgotha with a willful passion, when, alas,
You don’t know yourself  whether you are Jesus or Judas?

And do you have, my Soul, the ruthless scales 

To measure this immeasurable thought -
In this black midnight of your suffering...

18-19. VII. 1936


êàÜºî ²ÜÎÞèºÈÆ

§..Ø»Ý³Ï åÇïÇ ¹áõ ÁݹáõÝ»ë
¶áÕ·áÃ³Ý ³Ûë Ýáñ¦
ì³Ñ³Ý î»ñÛ³Ý

à±õñ »ë ³ñ¹Ûáù ùá ë¨ Ê³ã³÷³ÛïÁ ï³ÝáõÙ,

à°í ï³é³åÛ³É Ðá·Çë: - γ± ¶áÕ·áó Ýáñ ³ñ¹,
àñ µ³ñÓñ³Ý³ë Ñå³ñï, - ¨ Éáõë³½³ñ¹
øá åë³ÏÇÝ Ý³Û»Ý Ù³ñ¹ÇÏ ëÇñáí ³ÝÑáõÝ:

Ƶñ¨ ÐÇëáõ±ë »ë ¹áõ ³ñ¹Ûáù ÉÛ³é µ³ñÓñ³ÝáõÙ, -

»± - ³í³½³Ï »ë ÉáÏ ¹áõ ٳѳå³ñï®
äÇÕ³ïá±ë ¿ ³ñ¹Ûáù ³Ûëûñ ³Ù»Ý ÙÇ Ù³ñ¹,
àñ ùá ѳݹ»å Ó»éù»ñÝ ¿ Éí³ÝáõÙ®

¾É DZÝã åë³Ï Éáõë», - ¿É ¶áÕ·áó

ÆÝãå»±ë »ÉÝ»ë, Ðá·Çë, ã³ñã³ñ³Ýùáí Ñáųñ -
ºñµ ã·Çï»ë ÇÝù¹ ¿°É` ÐÇëáõ±ë »ë, û Ðáõ¹³®

àõÝ»±ë ³ñ¹Ûáù, Ðá·Ç°ë, ³Ý³·áñáõÛÝ Ýųñ,

àñ Ýųñ»ë ³Ûë ËáÑÝ ³ÝÏßé»ÉÇ -
â³ñã³ñ³Ýùǹ ³Ûë ë»õ Ï»ë·Çß»ñÇÝ®

18-19.VII. 1936




Like my past days,

Like my weary days,
I am already gone, 
I am already aged.
I am worn-out,
I am old now,
I am gone away and passed on,
I have grown old.

But in these shiny days

When the winds bluster,
My old heart also
Blows and sings.
As though I were still young,
As though I were enchanted,
And my heart has kept alive 
The flames of the past.

Yes, I know, it is you

Who is enchanting me
And charming and gazing
In these fiery days.
You are whispering sweetly,
A siren song that enchants me,
Whispering and calling to
I don't know where.

And now I can feel

That in my last dream
My soul starts longing
For you again.
As though I grew old, 
And came back again 
And dreamed as before 
Of longing and love.


 ÆØ ²Üò²Ì úðºðÆ äºê


ÆÙ ³Ýó³Í ûñ»ñÇ å»ë,

Ðݳó³Í ûñ»ñÇ å»ë,
ºë ³ñ¹»Ý Ñ»é³ó»É »Ù,
Ðݳó»É »Ù »ë.
ºë ³ñ¹»Ý Ñݳó»É »Ù,
ºë ³ñ¹»Ý ÑÇÙ³ Í»ñ »Ù,
лé³ó»É áõ ³Ýó»É »Ù, -
Ì»ñ³ó»É »Ù »ë:

´³Ûó ³Ûë í³é ûñ»ñÇ Ù»ç,

ºñµ ÑáÕÙ»ñÝ ³ÕÙÏáõÙ »Ý,
²ÕÙÏáõÙ áõ »ñ·áõÙ ¿
²Ýó³Í ëÇñïÁ ÇÙ.
ºë ϳñÍ»ë ¹»é ç³Ñ»É »Ù,
ÆÝÓ Ï³ñÍ»ë ÑÙ³Û»É »Ý,
ºí ÇÙ ëÇñïÁ å³Ñ»É ¿
Îñ³ÏÝ»ñÁ ÑÇÝ: -

²Ë, ·Çï»Ù, áñ ³Û¹ ¹áõ° »ë,

àñ ³Û¹å»ë ÑÙ³ÛáõÙ »ë,
ÐÙ³ÛáõÙ áõ ݳÛáõÙ »ë
úñ»ñáõÙ ³Ûë Ñáõñ.
¸áõ ³Ýáõß Ï³ñϳãáõÙ »ë,
¸áõ ϳÝãáÕ ÙÇ ÑÝãÛáõÝ »ë,
γñϳãáõÙ áõ ϳÝãáõÙ »ë,
â·Çï»Ù, û áõ±ñ:
ºí ÑÇÙ³ »ë ÉëáõÙ »Ù,
àñ í»ñçÇÝ »ñ³½áõÙ ÇÙ
øá ϳñáïÝ ëÏëáõÙ ¿
ÆÙ Ñá·ÇÝ Ñáõ½»É -
ºë ϳñÍ»ë Í»ñ³ó»É »Ù,
Ì»ñ³ó»É áõ ¹³ñÓ»É »Ù
àõ ÝáñÇó »ñ³½»É »Ù
γñáï³Ýù áõ ë»ñ®


Your soul - so delicate, starched,

Your heart - a spoiled little bitch.
While my soul is, you know, 
Used to sleeping in the streets. 

Your soul - so delicate, starched.

Pardon me, but do you think
That it could sit on its paws 
And howl from longing til dawn?

Could your soul in the streets - 

Where one is not even allowed to fight - 
With the first dog it meets
Unite, that is mate?

Oh, pardon me, Miss; but although

I am a poet, as you know,
I cannot restrain my feelings
With good manners, as you do.

And without being shy, tomorrow

As soon as spring starts blooming, 
I will let my wandering soul
Unite, that is mate with all.

Although I know that later

When sated it will start to sing,
On the gums of my soul 
Blue sores will appear.

However, again on the sidewalks,

Looking for crumbs of bread,
I'll squander my generous soul
And give it to the stray dogs.

Whores will become my sisters,

Dogs - my beloved brothers,
But what a pity you'll remain stranger to me
With your spotless, your starched soul.


Üð´²ÎÆð È.- ÆÜ

¼»ñ Ñá·ÇÝ - Ýáõñµ, ûëɳ۳Í,
¼»ñ ëÇñïÁ - ·áõñ·áõñ³Í ßÝÇÏ:
ÆëÏ »ë ëáíáñ»É »Ù, ·Çï»±ù,
àñ Ñá·Çë ÷áÕáóáõÙ ùÝÇ:

¼»ñ Ñá·ÇÝ Ýáõñµ, ûëɳ۳Í:

Ü»ñ»ó»ù® µ³Ûó ϳñá±Õ ¿ ݳ
лï¨Ç áïù»ñÇÝ Ýëï³Í -
ØÇÝ㨠ÉáõÛë ϳñáïÇó áéݳÉ:

γñá±Õ ¿ ³ñ¹Ûáù ÷áÕáóáõÙ,

àõñ ³Ý·³Ù ³ñ·»ÉíáõÙ ¿ Í»Íí»É,
²é³çÇÝ Ñ³Ý¹Çå³Í ß³Ý Ñ»ï
ØdzݳÉ, ³ÛëÇÝùÝ - Ïóí»É:

²Ë, ûñÇá°ñ¹, Ý»ñ»ó»°ù: ¸», »ë

àñù³Ý ¿É µ³Ý³ëï»ÕÍ ÉÇÝ»Ù,
´³Ûó Ó»½ å»ë µ³ñ»ÏÇñÃ, Ó»½ å»ë®
ÆÙ ÑáõÛ½»ñÁ ½ëå»É ã·Çï»Ù:

ºë ³é³Ýó ù³ßí»Éáõ, ·Çï»±ù,

ì³ÕÁ, »ñµ ·³ñáõÝ µ³óíÇ,
ÎÃáÕÝ»Ù, áñ Ñá·Çë ßñçÇÏ
²Ù»ÝùÇ Ñ»ï Ùdzݳ - ÏóíÇ:

»Ïáõ½ »ë ·Çï»Ù, áñ ݳ

ºñµ Ñ»ïá ѳ·»ó³Í »ñ·» -
ÆÙ Ñá·áõ Éݹ»ñùÇ íñ³
ε³óí»Ý ϳåáõÛï í»ñù»ñ:

´³Ûó ¿ÉÇ, Ù³ÛûñÇ íñ³

öÝïñ»Éáí ÷ßñ³ÝùÝ»ñ ѳóÇ -
Îí³ïݻ٠ÇÙ Ñá·ÇÝ ßé³ÛÉ,
Îï³Ù ßÝ»ñÇÝ ÷áÕáóÇ:

äáéÝÇÏÝ»ñÁ ÇÝÓ ùáõÛñ Ϲ³éݳÝ,

ÞÝ»ñÁ - »Õµ³ÛñÝ»ñ ³Ý·ÇÝ, -
´³Ûó ³÷ëáë áñ ûï³ñ ÏÙݳ
¼»ñ Ù³ùáõñ, ûëÉ³Û³Í Ñá·ÇÝ®



The torches hesitantly

Wink and signal
In the nocturnal yet viscous
Ambushes of enchantment.
There, stylish and corpulent
Women, like mannequins,
Display the tinny jewels
Of false madness.
Men tired and pale,
And cold like corpses
Are filled with joyful
And fervent madness.
Pass through alone! In the half darkness
With their passionate gestures,
Unspeakable enchantments
They will enchant you.
Sit down there. Let them, 
In their dark halls,
Burn a red fire, 
Charmless and dim.
May their old songs
And their fragile smiles

Remain estranged

From your longing soul.
Pretend that long ago
You eagerly dreamed of
This belated feast and love, 
This enchantment - for sale.
And all will turn into lies,
And your soul like wine
Will inundate their black 
And morbid floor.
You will be there
Until morning with them,
In their suffocating feast,
Meaningless and absurd.
Now surrender until dawn
Like a frail captive
To their belated feast,
Joyless and slaughterous.
May the wild whirlwind
Never stop even for a blink,
Get drunk from their gruesome love
Lest your lips part in a scream..


æ³Ñ»ñÝ ³ÛÝï»Õ ϳëϳÍáï
²ÏݳñÏáõÙ »Ý áõ óñÃáõÙ
¶Çß»ñ³ÛÇÝ, ë³Ï³ÛÝ ïáÃ
ÐÙ³ÛùÝ»ñÇ Ã³Ï³ñ¹áõÙ:
²ÛÝï»Õ ßù»Õ áõ ÷³ñóÙ,
سݻϻÝÇ å»ë ÏÇÝ»ñ
̳ËáõÙ »Ý ëáõï Ë»ÝÃáõÃÛ³Ý
ÂÇûճӳÛÝ áëÏÇÝ»ñ:
àõ Ù»é»ÉÇ ÝÙ³Ý å³Õ
سñ¹ÇÏ Ñá·Ý³Í áõ ¹»ÕÇÝ
²ÛÝï»Õ ÉóíáõÙ »Ý áõñ³Ë
Ê»ÝÃáõÃÛáõÝáí Ññ»Õ»Ý:
²ÝóÇ°ñ ٻݳÏ: - λë ÙÃáõÙ,
²ÏݳñÏÝ»ñáí Ññ³Ï»½,
ÐÙ³ÛÝùÝ»ñáí ³Ýå³ïáõÙ
ÎÑÙ³Û»Ý Ýñ³Ýù ù»½:
ÜëïÇ°ñ ³ÛÝï»Õ: ÂáÕ Ýñ³Ýù
êñ³ÑÝ»ñáõÙ Çñ»Ýó ÙáõÃ
ì³é»Ý ϳñÙÇñ ÙÇ Ïñ³Ï`
²ÝÑñ³åáõÛñ áõ ³Õáï:
²Ýѳñ³½³ï ÃáÕ ÉÇÝÇÝ
γñáï³Ï»½ ùá Ñá·áõÝ, -

» »ñ·»ñÁ Ýñ³Ýó ÑÇÝ,

» ÅåÇïÝ»ñÁ µ»ÏáõÝ:
гÙá½Ç°ñ ù»½, áñ í³Õáõó
¸áõ »ñ³½»É »ë ëÇñáí
̳ËíáÕ ÑÙ³ÛùÁ ³Û¹ áõß
Êñ³Ë׳ÝùÇ áõ ëÇñá:
àõ Ϲ³éݳ áÕçÁ - ëáõï,
àõ ·ÇÝáõ å»ë ùá Ñá·ÇÝ
Ðáñ¹` Ïó÷íÇ Ýñ³Ýó ÙáõÃ
àõ ٳѳÑáï ѳï³ÏÇÝ:
àõ ¿É ÙÇÝ㨠³é³íáï
äÇïÇ Ùݳë Ýñ³Ýó Ñ»ï`
Êñ³Ë׳ÝùáõÙ Ýñ³Ýó ïáÃ,
²ÝÇÙ³ëï áõ ³ÝѻûÃ:
¾É ѳÝÓÝíÇ°ñ ÙÇÝ㨠ÉáõÛë,
àñå»ë ·»ñÇ ÙÇ ³Ýϳ٠-
Êñ³Ë׳ÝùÇÝ Ýñ³Ýó áõß,
²Ýáõñ³Ë áõ ³ñݳù³Ù:
à°ã ÙÇ í³ÛñÏÛ³Ý ãϳë»
ÂáÕ ÑáñÓ³ÝùÁ Åñ³ç³Ý -
гñµÇ°ñ ëÇñáí Ýñ³Ýó ë¨,
àñ ßñûñ¹ ã×ã³Ý...


With unquenchable craving for passion and embrace
You have returned to visit the cities of Nairi.

Your unattractive and green corpse's eyes

Are flaming again with insatiable desire.

You are passing through and seeing those cities

Where there were just weeds at the time of Ara.

The world has changed. And Nairi has changed also.

Now every king would give himself to your flame.

There is no need for quarrels, no need for deadly battles-

For the new kings just a smile will suffice.

Just a small hint - and they will give themselves to you,

To your bewitching, lascivious and feverish love.

They will come one by one - and you will torture them

With the sharp arrows of your greedy love and allure.

And they will make love to you with such passion

That your soul consumed with desire will heal at last.

…But there will be a night, – when, full of Nairian charm, 

Your Ara will rise from the mist with his boyish smile.

Your desolate soul will burn with desire again,

And you will declare war with bewildered dismay.

Lest to succumb to her morbid flame –

The ancient Nairi will rise with him to fight.

And in the fields of Nairi again he will fall,

The troops will retreat, and the land will be yours.

He will die as a martyr – but you will not defeat him.

Bitter is the mystery of love, you, voluptuous Semiramis.



ÜáñÇó` ³ÝÙ³ñ ϳñáïáí ··í³ÝùÝ»ñÇ áõ ÑñÇ`
¸áõ »Ï»É »ë ï»ëÝ»Éáõ ù³Õ³ùÝ»ñÁ ܳÇñÇ:

²ÝÑñ³åáõÛñ áõ ϳݳã ùá ³ãù»ñÁ Ù»é»ÉÇ

ò³ÝÏáõÃÛáõÝáí Ññ³Ññ³Í` ³Ýѳ· í³éí»É »Ý ¿ÉÇ:

¸áõ ³ÝóÝáõÙ »ë áõ ï»ëÝáõÙ ù³Õ³ùÝ»ñÁ ÑÇÙ³ ³ÛÝ,

àñáÝó ï»Õ Ëáï ¿ñ µáõëÝáõÙ, »ñµ ¹»é ³åñáõÙ ¿ñ ²ñ³Ý:

²°ÛÉ ¿ ³ß˳ñÑÁ ÑÇÙ³, ³°ÛÉ ¿ ÑÇÙ³ ܳÇñÇÝ.

à°ã ÙÇ ³ñù³ ¿É ãϳ, áñ ãïñíÇ ùá ÑñÇÝ:

à°ã í»× ¿ ¿É ѳñϳíáñ, á°ã å³ï»ñ³½Ù ٳѳéÇÃ.

²ñù³Ý»ñÇ Ñ³Ù³ñ Ýáñ - µ³í³Ï³Ý ¿ ÙÇ ÅåÇï. -

ØdzÛÝ ³ÏݳñÏ ÙÇ Ã»Ã¨ - ¨ Ïïñí»Ý Ýñ³Ýù ù»½,

øá ÑÙ³ÛÇã áõ ³Ýè ï³ñ÷³ÝùÝ»ñÇÝ Ññ³Ï»½: -

η³Ý Ù»Ï-Ù»Ï áõ ëÇñáí - áõ Ïï³Ýç»ë Ýñ³Ýó ¹áõ

²Ýѳ· ÏñùÇ áõ ëÇñá Ýǽ³ÏÝ»ñáí ùá ѳïáõ:

ºí ³ÛÝåÇëǘ ï³ñ÷³ÝùÝ»ñ Ýñ³Ýù Ïï³Ý ÑÇÙ³ ù»½,

àñ ϳÙáùíÇ ùá Ñá·ÇÝ Ï³ñáï³ÝùÇó ëÇñ³Ï»½:

®´³Ûó ÏÉÇÝÇ ÙÇ ·Çß»ñ - áõ ÑÙ³Ûùáí ݳÇñÛ³Ý

ε³ñÓñ³Ý³ ÙßáõßÇó Ù³ÝϳÅåÇï ùá ²ñ³Ý:

Üáñǘó Ñá·Ç¹ ³Ýë÷á÷ ϳñáï³Ýùáí Ïí³éíÇ -

àõ ë³ñë³÷áí ÙÇ ³Ýû·` ÝáñÇó Ï»ÉÝ»ë ¹áõ ÏéíÇ:

ºí áñå»ë½Ç ãïñíÇ Ý³ ³Ëï³Å»ï ùá ÑñÇÝ -

àïùÇ Ï»ÉÝ» Ýñ³ Ñ»ï ѳ½³ñ³ÙÛ³ ܳÇñÇÝ:

ºí ¹³ßï»ñáõ٠ܳÇñÇ Ïå³ñïíÇ ÝáñÇó ݳ,

ÎݳѳÝç» ½áñùÁ »ï, »ñÏÇñÁ ù»½ ÏÙݳ:

ܳ ÏÙ»éÝÇ, áñå»ë ½áÑ - µ³Ûó ã»°ë ѳÕÃÇ ¹áõ Ýñ³Ý.

- ¸³éÝ ¿ ËáñÑáõñ¹Á ëÇñá, ß³Ùµßáï³ßáõñà ޳ÙÇñ³Ù®


Slowly, slowly, slowly, slow,

Feet on the ground, the ground, the ground,
It came and went, it came and went,
Pale and yellow, pale and yellow.

Moving the hand - first up, then down,

Stamping its feet - a corpse, a corpse!
Coming forward, painfully, slow,
The hand falls down then up it goes.

Here, here, look, it’s bending down,

Will fall, will fall, but no, no, wait,
One lip parts from lip below,
Stops for a moment - staring at death.

Then sharply screams, as if by force, 

Motionless eyes staring afar,
This is the way my soul will die
Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly…



I give thanks to thee, Lord, for all

You gave me in my pitiful life -
For the bread I won with honest sweat,
For the woman’s body, blessed as bread,
For the defeats I had in my battles,
For the occasional victories...
And - finally - for the greatest fortune
And grace you bestowed on me with your hands,
The intimacy of the immaculate Muses
That in this inexorable life is given to few,
A divine award, an inaccessible gift …
For which I would willfully bear in life
Tenfold times as much
Dreadful bitterness and suffering,
Inexorable tortures and persecution, 
And even death.


 ÞÜàðÐ²Î²È ºØ, îºð

ÞÝáñÑ³Ï³É »Ù, î»ñ, ³ÛÝ ³Ù»ÝÇ Ñ³Ù³ñ,
àñ ïí»óÇñ ¹áõ ÇÝÓ ÏÛ³ÝùáõÙ ÇÙ Ë»Õ×. -
ºí ïùÝáõÃÛ³Ùµ ³½ÝÇí ÇÙ í³ëï³Ï³Í ѳóÇ,
ºí ϳݳóÇ Ù³ñÙÝÇ` ѳóÇ å»ë ëáõñµ, -
ºí å³ñïáõÃÛ³Ý Ñ³Ù³ñ ÇÙ` Ù³ñï»ñáõÙ ÙÕ³Í,
º°í ѳÕÃ³Ï³Ý »ÉùÇ »ñµ»ÙݳÏÇ...
ºí - í»ñç³å»ë - Ó»éùáí ùá ÇÝÓ ßÝáñѳÍ
²Ù»Ý³Ù»Í µ³ËïÇ ¨ µ»ñÏñáõÃÛ³Ý Ñ³Ù³ñ`
Øáõë³Ý»ñÇ ³Ý»ÕÍ Ùï»ñÙáõÃÛ³Ý,
àñ ùã»ñÇÝ ¿ ³Ûë ³Ý³·áñáõÛÝ ÏÛ³ÝùáõÙ
îñíáõ٠ǵñ¨ å³ñ·¨ í»ñÇÝ, ǵñ¨ ³ÝѳëÝ»ÉÇ ÁÝͳ...
ºë ó³ÝÏáõÃÛ³Ùµ Ñáųñ Ïï³Ý»Ç ÏÛ³ÝùáõÙ ÇÙ
î³ëݳå³ïÇ°Ï ³Ý·³Ù ³í»ÉÇ
ºí ¹³éÝáõÃÛáõÝ ¹ÅÝÇ, ¨° ï³é³å³Ýù,
ºí ã³ñã³ñ³Ýù ³Ý·³Ù ³Ý³·áñáõÛÝ,
ºí ѳɳͳÝù ³Ù»Ý, ¨ ³Ý·³Ù Ù³°Ñ...

Look at the statue, metallic, tall
eyes on the distance overlooking all.
Ingenious thought etched in this brow rows
But what did he achieve in life? No one knows.

There are also living monuments, tall and proud

standing (no one knows why) above the crowd.
Our empty heads provide pedestals for these men.
Our stupidity makes monuments out of them.
Ode to Books

Like multiplied suns,
like stars, with diffused light,
I love their voices reaching down
from other worlds
speaking with passion to
match an adolescent's earnest desire-
I love them, old and new,
artful and artless. I love them
with the will and intent
of a mature man reaching toward
his life goal.
I love the noble cavalry of thoughts
the world of books.

Look at them, births so far apart

in place and time, each with
its own universe, its unique gift
joining like intimate friends
on a journey,
or a resting at home in the past.
Some lifelong co-travelers
eternal, some unfaltering,
others hovering to haunt,
like evil ghosts pursuing
us forever.
And those with a momentary smile
leaving only something elusive
in our hearts. Some
harsh teachers, leaders, martinets
demand, command, and others whisper
secretive, non-communicative messages. Examples of
paradox. Still more, who flirt,
their flighty ways fated
to be forgotten fast.

There are cruel masters too with

merciless phrases. Others are
unadorned pamphlets without
ornament. While some
come like Balthasar
the Assyrian King, painted like a whore.
Yes there are accounts,
artless journeys as confused
as nature but which yield radiant
secrets to the persistent eye.

Others, locked castles

of thought, open
to the fearless alone.
While fabled mansions beside
them are full of empty
dust, when entered. And
if the intruder stays, he is
grabbed at the throat
by a dead man's hand.

Others are forest roads,

dense, dark. Some,
swift and sweet as winds
that glow. Still more-
refresh like a caress
or rouse like a flute
or trumpet, or unsettle
like the roar of thunder.

And there are those which fill

our hearts slowly and silently
with elegiac passions
we did not know we had.

What variety, never ending,

mysterious harmonies, originality,
unfolding, revealing differences
among them. And all dear to me,
Like sun-variegations, like
a multi-tongued universe,
I love the many colored fires,
the voices of nature,
the fragrances of human life,
in this the reflection of
the constantly shifting constellations
making more lives, new worlds,
self-contained-all resting
on wooden shelves in silence.
But alive. I love their labyrinth
of endless color, deep effusion,--
the boundless universe of books.


Seven Pieces of Advice for Planters to Come

Sowers of the future, you who are going
to plant seeds from full hands,
into these fertile furrows that we plowed,
these painted by our sweat, blood and songs.
O, you who will walk with light hearts into
turquoise days that break like cymbals
of sun, may I, your distant brother, be allowed
to send you seven pieces of advice?

The first recommendation which I address

from these old bristling, burning days is this:
Let your fist handful of seed
pave our fields with illusion and dreams.

Spread them like goodness which does not end

toward the birds and winds of our land.
Let their joy be limitless
the way our old suffering had no bounds.

Direct your second favor tot he north,

the wide Steppes where
in this divided nation
the red hurricane turns to summer rain.

And throw the third handful of your seed

toward Mount Ararat. Let it fly
like condensed fever, in delirium,
to piece the snow-beaten mountain's chest.

Plant then a handful of wheat and imagination

bright and honest as your hopes.
Plant them in the old town of Nork
so that the new bud of song begins.

And let the fifth toss of your deep treasure

be a gift to our spirit
which in the distant past created song
and its nobler dream.

And the sixth handful, planters

address to the bones of the more recent past.
You will suddenly hear sighs and
voices from the depths of your land.

Then only then, after those six

fill your palms, for the seventh time, then
with your open hand sow your future harvest
the endless furrow that stretches ahead.
I Sang Every Style of Song

I sang every style of song. The ode surpassed all.
And of all immortals, Sayat Nova outstays all.

I saw myriads of fruit in bazaars, arrayed row on row.

But the garden of the Shah of Shahs is where immortal
fruit can grow.

No matter with what watering my garden is blessed

the early dew of morning makes roses bloom best.

I traveled west to see mansions, and stately chateaux.

Still the street of my beloved was where my heart ached to go.

If you want to write songs, Charents, go to the source.

Listen to the lover. Love's grief is the force.

Look! A new light is ascending!
Who brought this sun to our world?
Gaze upon this golden star,
Arriving through fire,
Embracing the earth, riding
Before dawn, steeds of porphyry,
Infusing light and ecstasy,
Giving to the new world and men
Lasting bliss and harmony.
And who turned on this restless light,
Opening the gates to the crimson blaze?
Tell me, what hand set the fire
To illuminate with flame-red flare and
Spirit? Who set this diamond of a light
Glowing with such glare in a
Setting darkened with blight...?

By being a bearer of life's stress,

Lowered to the depths of slavery
Running stream of wisdom in an
Arid plain of insanity -
How many years, and centuries,
In your long, long history,
Clinging to the bare truth
By sheer will, you bore witness...?

Is there no river cresting along the

Dark banks where our homeland was?
Clamoring against serfdom,
Ever flowing through endless time
Passing through hideous darkness,
It carried the seeds of this sunrise
Simmering visions of distant dreams
Born for eons on its waves...
Under the burden of an existence
Singed by sorrow and strife, still
A spirit alive, a stream aflame,
Lighting a new crimson torch
And hailing the coming triumph...

Bygone embers are lit now,

Nothing dampens our radiant spirit,
Our shining star soars anew
Bright as this world ablaze...
Accept this sun-the only one
For ages to come-and beyond...
Always rising, always aloft,
Clearing the skies of all tarnish
Beckoning us towards justice
Scrubbed of all blemish and grime...
It cautions us with fiery plumes,
Signaling us to stand firm...
Ever present, ever bright
Let it always remain in sight.

Issued in fire ant dazzling light,

Steady hands should hold these scales
Cradling the spirit of our lore,
Lest it tumbles, dropped by us
Into gaping, horrid depths...
A great, pensive page from our past,
Stable and just as our people's soul,
The solid history of wisdom's court.

Note: This poem entitled "Testament"(Badkam) contains an encoded secret message to the Armenian people: the second letters of each line, read from top to bottom, spell out "Oh Armenian people your only salvation is in your collective strength" . Today, a banner with this message from Charents hangs on the Nagorno-Karabakh Parliament Building in Stepanakert.


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ú¯, à±ôÙ Ó»éùáí í³éáõ»ó, á±õÙ,

Ðð³Ï³ñÙÇñ, Ññ³í³ñë,

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ø²Ýǯ ï³ñÇ, ù³Ýǯ ¹³ñ

ìγۻóÇñ ³ÝÑ»ñùáõÙ...

²ö»ñÇÝ ³ÛÝ Ë³õ³ñïãÇÝ,

àõð ѳÛñ»ÝÇùÝ ¿ñ Ù»ñ ÑÇÝ,-

âγ±ñ ³ñ¹»ûù ·»ï ÙÇ Ûáñ¹,

àñ ·»ñáõû³Ý ³ÝѳÕáñ¹ª

Èàôñê Ñáë»Éáí ¹³ñÇó-¹³ñª

ØÂáõû³Ý Ù¿ç ³ÛÝ Û³Ù³é

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Ðà¯Æñ ³Û·³µ³óÝ ³Ûë Ñ»éáõª

ÐÜáõó å³Ñ³Í Çñ çñáõÙ

ú¯, ÀÕӳϳ°Ý ³Ûë Ñ»éáõÝ...

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à·Ç¯ ³ÝÏáñ, Ñá¯õñ ·»ï³Ï...

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Ú²ÕóݳÏÇ ÉáÛëÁ µáñµ.

Èáô³ÝáõÙ ¿ ݳ ÑÇÙ³

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âøÝ³Õ ³ñ»°õÝ ³Û¹ ³ñÇ,

ì²éáõ³Í Ññáí ³ß˳ñÑÇ...

âγ¯Û áõñÇß ³ñ»õ ¿°É.

ܲ° ¿ ÙdzÛÝ, áñ ¹³ñ»ñ

²ÜÙ³ñ ª åÇïÇ ³ñ»õ¿°...
ÈàÚëáí í³éáõ³Í ë³Ï³ÛÝ ³Û¹ª

ÜųñÝ»ñÇó ÑÇÙ³ Ù»Ýù

ÚÆÙ³ñáõû³Ùµ ãó÷»Ýù

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¾°æÝ ³ÛÝ ³ñ¹³ñ áõ é³ÙÇϪ

غͳѳÝ׳ñ áõ í³ñ³ñ...

ºÔÆÞ¾ â²ðºÜò

1.²Ûë ·³Õïݳ·Çñ ù»ñÃáõ³ÍÇÝ Çõñ³ù³ÝãÇõñ ïáÕÇ »ñÏñáñ¹

·Çñ»ñÁ ÏÁ ϳå»Ý §àí Ñ³Û ÄáÕáíáõñ¹ ùá ÙÇ³Ï ÷ñÏáõÃÇõÝÁ

ùá ѳõ³ù³Ï³Ý áÛÄÇ Ù¿ç ¿¦ å³ï·³ÙÁ áñ ³ÛÉ»õë ³½·³ÛÇÝ

ѳݷ³Ý³Ï ¹³ñÓ³Í ¿£

Ode to my Mother

I remember your old face, mother so sweet and precious,
Luminous lines and wrinkles, mother so sweet and precious.

There you have sat by the house and the greened tree of berry

Has cast shadow on your face, mother so sweet and precious.

You've sat down sad and silent, remembering those old days,

Which have come and then have passed, mother so sweet and precious.

You remember now your son, who has left so long ago, -

You wonder where he has gone, mother so sweet and precious.

You wonder where is he now, is he alive, is he dead?

And what doors has he beaten, mother so sweet and precious?

And when he was so weary, when of love he was deceived -

On whose lap was he sobbing, mother so sweet and precious?

You're pondering so sadly, the berry tree is rocking

Your sorrow so limitless, mother so sweet and precious.

And tears bitter and salty are now falling one by one

All over your olden hands, mother so sweet and precious...!



Toward the future

My infinite soul is already full
With confusing songs and also noises;
My electric heart is already full
With inflamed currents.

My soul has become a radio station
For the entire world and all of mankind;
And it is so high, my soul's station,
Like Massis so high, and also so firm -
Mighty, terrible!

In these fervent days, wind-driven, confused -

The song of million hearts distant or near
It is now my fate to sing it today;
My multimillion, ten thousands of friends'
Joy of today and their great flight as well -
Today it's my song's turn to cast the fate
Of the coming days.

Therefore this is why

As a gigantic, as an Eiffelian
Enormous tower,
At past and coming centuries' threshold
Mighty, high above,
I am now standing with my entire height
And I am singing.
And my soul is now a radio station,
It is now sending its fiery red song
Far and far away; -
To all of the hearts, who live and exist
In all directions.

My soul is singing, sounding fervently.

I know in front of my song of today -
Facing the red sparks of my soul as well -
Each single soul is a radio station,
Wherever it is!
Every soul which lives, each soul which exists,
And is carrying upon its own wings
The same great concept, the immense concept
Of these fervent days, -
The radiant concept of these fervent days.
Every single soul,
Which is today with its wings of iron
Ringing and rustling -
And is searching for new rest and lulling
In the uproar of million rebel wings...

Do you know, that now

Here -
In my ruined country of Nayiri
And far - far away -
Inside red Moscow,
At yellow Tibet,
At San Francisco, enormous London
And at Singapore -
In all locations, in all directions
The world is pregnant with a novel song?

Far away- and near

Inside the mine pits,
At the factories,
In the wide steppes and in the forests -
In all locations, in all directions,
My brothers, thousands, who're lulled with the song
Of iron and of bronze, of the soil and mines!
Who possesses our will of fire today,
Our blood-red power
Our fervent fortune
So universal?

Who has them today...?

It's us who are new, we're tens of thousands!

Like an enormous disc made of iron

The brave will of our thousands of brothers,
So universal -
We have already thrown with immense force
Toward all the winds of the coming days,
Toward - the Future...


For Avetik Isahakyan

No matter how far I go
improving draft by draft
my art and my heart
must bow to your craft.

All my life, my impossible

aim was to finish
a song to charm children
that old men could cherish.

just as all hearts quicken

with the tempo of yours,
The hear of your nation,
beats in your words.

Oh for such a song

affectionate and small
that would endure
inscribed on my walls,

so that generations to come

could say with a smile
my warmest poem
was for you (in your style).

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