Dantesque legend

Oh, eternal mother of mysteries

Who, in suffering and lust, conceives

Numerous lives, who creates

A thousand twists, a thousand hues, and shades ,

What is the spring of these eternal rhythms?

Oh savage, crazy painful,

Sometimes wise, sometimes diabolical spirid

Waving the magic wand of fate

You chant such sacred prayers

about nothing.

Is it necessary to walk, and walk,

Burdened with the will to live, to

Walk through a meaningless life

Under relit, but long extinguished stars

Keeping the delirium of the universe

alive forever in its dream?

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The frenzied Masses Part 2

He who had come from distant villages Left the damp earth which had become disobedient And did not sprout life, but refused even a single yellow splinter. He who came from the steppes left the stretch Of limitless horizons which had shrunk suddenly into prison walls. And he who was from the city brought His tubercular heart, like a red flag. He who had come from the deep darkness of the village Brought his muscles, supple and workable as his lands. He who had come from the steppes, where he lived like a slave, brought the vistas of the steppes in his turquoise eyes. Restless, restive, boiling, they advanced to the fight.

The frenzied Masses Part 1

To you, comrades near and far, to you, other suns. In other worlds, to all your souls on fire, To all you burning fires, To you burnished spirits Who light this untamed darkness called life, and death, To you all who are sacrificed for the sake of light, Greetings. With the evening sun burning the field away, In that old field the frenzied masses fought, They had come from cities, villages, steppes. They had come glowing from their own fires. He who had left the city, left its old mists, Hazes that became dark smoke and stained his past. To be continued․․․

I love the sun-baked taste of Armenian words… Part 2

Wherever I go, I take our mournful music, Our steel forget 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 Koutch. No mountain peak like Ararat’s, Search the world, there is no crest as white, so holy. So like an unreached road to gory, – Massis mountain that I love.

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