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MY mother writes: “My son on pilgrimage,
How long beneath a strange moon will you roam?
How long a time must pass ere your poor head
To my warm bosom I may press, at home?

“Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod
Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day—
Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once,
Far from my empty heart has pined away!

“My arms are weary at the spinning wheel;
I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow.
Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again,
Then close forever, with my heart below!

“Always I sit in sadness at my door,
And tidings ask from every crane that flies.
That willow slip you planted long ago
Has grown till over me its shadow lies.

“I wait in vain for your return at eve.
All the brave fellows of the village pass,
The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold—
I with the moon am left alone, alas!

“ My ruined house is left without a head.
Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer
Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I,
Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere!

“Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore!
They burst the door, they swept the larders bare.
Now all the swallows of the spring come in
Through shattered windows, open to the air.

“ Of all the goodly flocks of long ago
One brave ram only in our stable stands.
His mother once—remember, little son—
While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands.

“Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now,
To nourish his rich dmak,* of noble size;
I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb;
He is a dear and precious sacrifice.

“When you come back, his head with roses wreathed,
He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet;
And in his blood, my well-beloved son,
I then will wash my pilgrim’s weary feet.”

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* A mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed, in place of a tail.

Source: Armenianhouse.org

At the Eastern part of the earth

Let there be peace…

Let sweat, not blood, flow

In the broad vein of the furrow,

And at the toll of each hamlet’s bell

Let there rise hymns of exaltation.

At the Western part of the earth

Let there be fecundity …

Let each star sparkle with dew,

And each husk be cast in gold

And as the sheep graze on the hills

Let bud and blossom bloom.

At the Northern part of the earth

Let there be abundance …

In the golden sea of the wheat field

Let the scythe swim incessantly

And as gates of granaries open wide

Jubilation let there be.

At the Southern part of the earth

Let all things bear fruit…

Let the honey thrive in the beehive

And may the wine run over the cups

And when brides bake the blessed bread

Let the sound of song rise and spread.

ON the bank of the river, in the row of cranes,

That one drooped its head,

Put its beak under its wing, and with itsaged

Dim pupils, awaited

Its last black moment.

When its comrades wished to depart,

It could not join them in their flight.

Scarcely could it open its eyes and watch in the air

The path of the little flock that went along

Calling down to those under the roofs

The tidings, the greetings and the tears

Entrusted to them by the exile.

Ah, the poor bird! In the bleak embrace

Of that cold autumnal silence, it is dying.

It is vain to dream any more

Of a distant spring, of cool currents of air

Under strong and soaring wings,

Or of passing through cool brooks

With naked feet, of dipping its long neck

Amongst the green reeds;

It is vain to dream any more!

The wings of the Armenian crane

Are tired of traveling. It was true

To its heart-depressing calling;

It has transported so many tears!

How many young wives have put among its soft feathers

Their hearts, ardently beating!

How many separated mothers and sons

Have loaded its wings with kisses!

Now, with a tremor on its dying day,

It shakes from its shoulders

The vast sorrow of an exiled race.

The vows committed to it, the hidden sighs

Of a betrothed bride who saw at length

Her last rose wither unkissed;

A mother’s sad blessing;

Loves, desires, longings,

It shakes at last from its shoulders.

And on the misty river-bank

Its weary wings, spread for the last time,

Point straight toward

The Armenian hills, the half-ruined villages.

With the voice of its dying day

It curses immigration,

And falls, in silence, upon the coarse sand of the river bank.

It chooses its grave,

And, thrusting its purple beak

Under a rock, the dwelling-place of a lizard,

Stretching out its curving neck .

Among the songs of the waves,

With a noble tremor it expires!

A serpent there, which had watched that death-agony

Silently for a long time with staring pupils,

Crawls up from the river-bank,

And, to revenge a grudge of olden days,

With an evil and swift spring

Coils around its dead neck.

Source: Armenianhouse.org

“THERE is famine; bread, bread !”

Who is sighing?

On the threshold of my cottage, who is sighing?

My love has gone out, with the flame in my fireplace.

Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, of what use is it

To sow tears on ashes?

I have nothing, nothing! To-day, with my last

Small coin I bought poison;

I shall mix poison within me.

Come to-morrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One,

Through the storm, early, when around the village

Wolves are still wandering.

Come to-morrow! As bread, from my grave

I will throw into that bag of thine

My poet’s heart.

My poet’s heart shall be thy blood, the blood of thy orphans,

As long as thy grief lives.

Come to-morrow to the graveyard, O thou Hungry One!

Source: Armenianhouse.org