And One Man Called Mashdots
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
from the Second Volume of Collected Works of 3
volumes. Published in Yerevan, 1983, by “Sovedagan Grogh”.
Part A.
We were here as well even before Him,
Centuries ago.
From tyranny we have kept away
Having preferred our rocky mountains to the fertile fields;
Having put to flight the pursuer who tried to stampede us
That is how it came that we got our name
When we were called Haig.
We would turn to fish the breathless stone
Fish,
Which was asking for a drop of rain
With a burned belly
And half-opened mouth,
From the arid soil of reddened mountains
And waterless skies.
Piercing the mountain
We would move water
And then let it flood
Into widowed wombs of our vineyards.
And to the mute clay we would deliver
Its delicate form
And would name it cask
In which we then washed our chastened barley;
That yellow water of our baptism
More than drunkenness
Amazed the haughty
Who would no longer
Have the daring to call us “barbarian”.
We would also form the stubborn gold to become mother
To turn to spotless goddess statue,
And then that surrendering gold’s submissiveness
We would call Mother of intuition, Great Anahid.
We would also give to the bottomless abyss a new depth,
To the gorge which pierced the sky a new height
And called it Garni...
We were here as well even before Him.
Adding to all which our kings and our princes had already done
We would carry on their unfinished work
With sounds of glory
And would then call it The Song Of Epics...
And our Arshags
As they touched our land under their own feet
Would open their lips just with words of pride
And speak valiantly to the oppressors.
And our Musheghs
As they fought against the foreign power
Captured their harem, and brought back as slaves,
And without touching one single woman
Taught the lesson of manhood and valiance;
Such was this lesson
That even the foe would learn it by heart...
We were here as well even before Him.
We used to observe the stars with our eyes,
We wove the sunlight with red-dyed fibers;
After the temple we went to visit our theater,
Where we then enjoyed with such noble joy
Our dancers like quails
Whose bodies were like silenced melody
And who did also “sing with their own hands”...
Part B.
Yes, we have been here even before Him.
But over the world
A tempest had passed as none saw before.
A discolored Jew
Chased out of some land,
Appearing like a foreigner and guest,
Took himself from one to another world.
Mighty were the gods of the ancient times,
They were so mighty,
That they were sincere and they never lied.
But this pitiful and also poor Jew
Came to fabricate promises of air,
He came brightly armed with a pretty lie...
Gullible indeed were those ancient gods,
And so gullible,
That only the blood of their sacrifice satisfied their thirst
And only its flesh could fill their hunger.
The Jew came to say:
“This is my body, take it and eat it.
And this is my blood, drink it with love...”
Straightminded were all those ancient gods,
As straighminded
As naive taylors,
Who always designed the dress of their faith
On the exact shape and pattern of life.
And the Jew had come with purpose to sew
A universal and magical dress,
So to equalize
The thin and the fat
The thick and the slim...
Truth-speaking were those ancient gods,
Truth-speaking
Just as a young child;
They called men just “men”
And called Himselves gods.
The Jew said: “I’m man”,
And...he became god
As he said “I’m man”...
Mighty were the gods of the ancient times,
They were so mighty,
That they were sincere and they never lied.
But in history, yet there are some times,
When those who don’t lie, would become destroyed...
Part C.
And destroyed they were, those old ancient gods.
People,
Who only just yesterday had many different gods,
Were now bound to have
Solely one god,
All with only one, one and only god.
And they did not know
Who was that sole One
And what did he want...?
In the places of Aramazds and Mihrs,
In place of Vahags with red and fiery moustaches and beards
Came a Jew of black moustaches and beard,
And in yesterday’s places of Asdghigs, Anahids, Naneas
Established today
His mother so pale or so hit by shame?
And they were talking in such a language,
That not even one could it understand.
In place of temples and all the pantheons,
On their still warm ambers and ashes
They now made stand
Still unfinished, wood-thatched prayer sites
With their crosses now piercing sharply
First into the heart
Then into the sky...
Not with abundance of wild burning flames
But with harvest of evil poverty
The coldish candles wished to become bread now for this new faith,
Which would call itself the volunteerism,
But spread itself with fierce tyranny.
...With a faithless life, it is not easy, not even to die,
But to live is yet...just impossible.
They snatched from men, their faith so ancient,
As the new faith was established with words,
And only with words!
-- There was no new one yet!
The old was ruined, utterly destroyed,
But the new one was only built with words,
Only with just words!
-- There was no new one yet.
And like this
At once and then slowly
All things turned over,
Became upside down,
And not even one could bring back order.
-- Even the roamer could not, he could not!
And like this
Of life remained one prayer,
Which would not sound loud.
And like this
Passed by a whole hundred years,
Which seems a short time, when you’re reading books,
But if you live each and every moment
Feeling on your skin, feeling with your heart,
With all the folds in your brain...at that time...
Part D.
That is how we were living at that time.
Already the world called Armenia then
Was now only called Armenia by name.
Like the sacrificed warm heart of the lamb*
Our land had been halved
And forced to be pierced
By two red sharp *
One of which was held on fire by Persians,
And the other held evil Byzantines over the candles.
We were being grilled;
In the place of tears
Our fat* was dripping,
As if it wanted to put off the fire.
But those drops of fat -who does not know this?- do not put off fire
But re-inflame it with new fervor.
On our own land
Under our own sky
We had been turned to foreign colony.
Just to venerate even our own father
Or to kiss his son
We had to request the permission of another kingship,
Which if we received
We were obliged to consider it grace
And remain thankful forever and more.
The world that was called Armenia was halfed
And sat already
On seperated edges of those chairs
Under which opened the bottomless gorge.
And yet all of our masters of this world
Were only worried about just one thing,
Just one noble thought
Their own private chair,
Their own possessions*
And their own pillow.
Only not to be deprived of the grace of their high status;
Like a pendulum
This thought alone would swing them up and down.
Only to lean on and remain seated
On seperated edges of those chairs,
Under which bellowed* the bottomless gorge...
It was all ruined, land of Armenians.
And if the current masters of the house
Had the dignity of the previous one
They would have exclaimed*:
“Over the ruins, how can I be king?”
Part E.
...The brave’s borders are merely their own guns!
There are always braves,
What’s needed is guns!
There are always braves,
What’s necessary is course of action!
There was also none!
There were only forts,
Which were scattered from world to world.
And there were as well, the noble foreheads,
With which one never could destroy the forts...!
Already the world was ruled by one truth,
That for hundred years,
Hundred * years
Coud not establish its accuracy.
A such was this truth
That every moment
Willingly or not, negated itself,
Always exposing its own nakedness
And reality.
The reality...!
Jesus,
Who was a good and decent Jew,
Had already turned a long time ago
To a real wicked, cunning Byzantine;
And with the disguise of the new faith of eden-paradise,
The old Byzantine with his new tricks
Was bringing his hell of gulping aliens to other countries,
Was hitting the waist of the world with his imperial saber*,
That pitiful world,
With no right even sigh from of its pain;
And instead of sighs
Yet it would thunder with “aleluyah”!
The reality...!
With the kind preaching of equality and brotherhood
It was entering another’s home and land
With foreign morals,
And foreign customs.
Is not after all reality that
After the army,
They bring the language to the battlefield,
And what the army could not accomplish
Then the language would.
The reality...!
The new idea was not idea,
But only a mould,
Such a narrow mould,
That would already last a hundred years.
Not an idea,
But only a mould,
Which would even shape the dream itself;
Not an idea,
But only mould for
Not just the body
Which gasped breathlessly
But the soul as well,
Which for long had not been flying freely,
The language as well...
If just the language could only function.
But our language...!
Part F.
There was not the right to sing our own songs,
Which for centuries
Resonated with our golden language;
One time or other
With the words of love,
And in the temples of happiness with
Pouring streams of wine,
And also at our seven-day weddings
In our locked courtyards
And our open roofs.
There was not the right to just even play
Neither on the harp*
Nor on tambourine.
You cared for this life?
Then you’re unclean,
And you are lawless
And persecuted!*
“Do all in the name of the life that is
To come after you, only after you”...
You go to the plays?
Then you’re unclean;
Feast with food and drink?
Then you’re unclean.
Did you watch a dance
Or you danced yourself?
Then you’re unclean.
Were you hit by love
And fell in new love
Then you’re unclean.
Did you have just one thought about this life?
Then you’re unclean.
“Do all in the name of the life that is
To come after you, only after you”...
And after all this, and so much of this,
There was not the right just even to cry.
Did you mourn your son?
Then you’re unclean,
Did you lament on your own black day?
Then you’re unclean.
You cry from the pain they have given you?
Then you are lawless,
And worthy of death.
Communion***
Then you are lawless,
And worhty of death.
“Do all in the name of the life that is
To come after you, only after you”...
...And after all this, and so much of this,
There was not the right just even to... cry.
There was not the right
Even to shed* tears instead of the blood.
What was left to do?
None else was there left
But for us to pray.
To pray to the one
That was the new god,
Who would not open even his own eye to his promises,
The whole is over there
The whole comes later,
But nothing for now,
And nothing down here.
None else was there left
But for us to pray.
But they were even praying to their god
With just foreign words,
Words that were not less ununderstood,
Than that god himself.
...And on people’s hearts already weary,
Which yesterday were full of compassion
And so sensitive,
Had now fallen a wasteful indifference
Toward tomorrow
And toward future.
Not one man knew what tomorrow may bring.
And no guarantee was in the future.
The fertile lands had failed to yield their crops
Even that promised heaven of above
Had turned to one fake and lifeless image.
Obscurity was deeper than abyss
An uncertainty spread* everywhere,
Which is even worse than the certain death.
An obscurity, which had turned itself
To the real evil master of the land.
And the sharp stench of destruction blew
Not just from the bread, or water and soil,
But also the air and even the wind.
It was essential, very essential, that something was done,
But what could be done, and yet how, but how...?
And all were asking that same question,
But there was no one to answer, not one...
Part G.
And it was just then, when to the world came
He,
A man,
Who was called Mesrob Mashdots.
Where did he come from?
Which fountain did he spring from suddenly?
And how did he come?
And which riverbed did he use to flow?
Thus a tear is born in the eye when sand
Falls into the eye.
Thus sand turns to glass
And glass to mirror.
Thus the sun lights first and before all else
The nest of the bird
That sits on the top of the tallest tree.
Thus in the awesome fight for existence,
The beast which has kept his inside unchanged,
Changes the color of its skin and that
Seems unexpected...
But their birth always seems unexpected
Which then surprises men for centuries,
But They are always born in life for one, only one reason,
That They were waited for so very long.
Within the people They all are asleep,
As within the depths of awesome waters,
And as within the domestic rooster
Its one-time “birdness”,
As there is within the child’s empty mouth
The tooth not yet grown.
They are born of their parents’ helplessness,
To become new might.
They are born of such prodigious fatigue,
So that They become prodigies Themselves.
They are born to show
That the end somewhere becomes beginning.
They are born to show,
That there’s no miracle
But only the need!
They are born to show,
That courage begins only at the place
Where every single resort had just failed...
Part H.
Thus of Them was one
Who was born
A man
And he was not born to add to the sum
Of the questioners who were plentiful.
He came to the world to only answer
And he truly did find the real answer...
..The brave’s borders are merely their own guns.
There are always braves,
What’s needed is guns!
There are always braves,
What’s necessary is course of action!
And so it was him, who gave shape and form
To the gun which had avoided the rust,
And who shaped a sea
For course of action,
Where for weak or strong,
For great or little,
For few or many
There is not any course of action for a competition,
Since in that newly fashioned struggle
Not the man or horse, but ideas fought,
Not blood but ink now was flowing instead,
And the victory was called The Archive...
We were here before, yes, and before Him.
But yet He was born,
To come and become a new Beginning.
...Before Him there were gods of the heavens,
Of love and fruition,
As well as of storms, also...of learning.
And if all of them were even so real,
The last one was lie, really was a lie;
--Indeed there was God, but never learning!
Him the faithful one to his novel faith,
Dismissed our fake god, the god of learning,
And in place of him, He stood by Himself.
But as our ancient god of learning would
Constantly do one and one thing alone,
Which was to seize and take away men’s souls,
Came Him who would give us our souls as gifts...
Yes, we already were here before Him;
Powerful or weak
We were one body.
However he came, to become a Soul,
A tangible soul,
And immortal soul!
Yes, we already were here before Him;
There was more or less bread and we had yet
Our water as well.
But he was born to become Nourishment!
He was born so that we are born as well,
He was, so that yes, we can also be,
Became immortal,
For us to become, immortal as well...
Part I.
Halfed was already our only nation,
And later it would remain just the same,
Our holy blood which flowed for centuries,
Would have been in vain also lost and gone.
Yet still would then come some horrible days;
Our land without us, from just missing us,
Would grow with the weeds* and with biting thorns,
And as to our sky,
Deprived of our eyes,
Would deprive itself*
Then they would deceive us in such a way,
The old deceiver
The new Byzantine
Would himself be shocked.
And then they were to...
Split was the land which was our native place,
Cracked was already our only nation.
And He was not born of any mother.
He came out of that crack, at once became tree,
To fill that crack with even his own self.
And He actually filled that crack Himself.
Our partitioned lands from everywhere,
It was Him who brought back all together
And united them...yet in our own minds.
And from that day on,
Even till today
That union remains still unshakable,
With those screaming shakes,
Which luck brings to us in so quiet ways,
Accompanied with a noiseless smirk,
To cover its shame,
But in vain...
It’s not able to cover,
Just as it is not able to cover what covers the grass
The shameful sweat that’s on the swamp’s belly*.
We did not have yet a state or statehood,
It was already a caricature,
Drawn by the hands of two artists indeed,
Who also despised each other no less
Than we despised them.
And then we would turn to a colony,
With a colonial ruler-governor.
Then they would takes us, for centuries long,
From one fall always yet to another,
And to that agha, who laid on our back
We were even forced to smile back as well.
And then when we were already deprived of our own buildings
We had to build those cities that had been destroyed by others.
And then when we were deprived of our crops
We had yet to plow foreign*
And then when we turned the trails of our feet
Toward the pathway that our flag had paved,
We pushed it forward across all frontiers
Around that round ball which is called the earth,
Where each single road
Would bring us back to its starting place,
But it never brought...a homeland for us!
We did not have yet, a state or statehood,
The fatherland’s throne had long been ruined.
And He was not born of any mother;
He grew so boldly from the ruin itself,
So that the ruin may become whole again.
And that ruin did become whole again.
That which could not be accomplished by them,
Arshag-Vagharshag,
Moushegh and Moushe,
He did all alone, without guns or troops;
Instead of our state which was siezed from us,
He created a new
Nonexistent one,
An awesome kingdom,
Not from all the lands which were siezed from us,
Not on the pieces of our torn homeland,
But in our own, indivisible,
Inseperable,
Unseizable souls!
And so thereafter became immortal
His great royal house,
And every king then who rose to the throne
Of our kingdom of the spiritual,
Was born of that house,
Derived from that race,
And with honor and glory and valor
Carried the name of that same dynasty,
Thus was He then born.
Was our luck reversed,
Or for a moment when He felt remorse.
He came to return to us that which yet
The same luck had seized from us yesterday?
Without faith dying is not too easy,
But to live...is yet just unbearable.
And instead of our ruined ancient faith
He armed us this time with new faith again.
Instead of the cheap, the bad that can’t last,
He brought the healthy chicken* that won’t scratch.
Instead of * deceipt and hypocricy,
He gave our children unlimited breast
With which they became mothers yet again,
Those with days
Had now grown up by the years,
Those with years
Had now grown by centuries,
Instead of brute force, learning was spread,
With occupations, emptiness was filled,
And not just one day being on all fours,
A fast-pacing and lively literature,*
Jumped up suddenly and started to run.
Instead of destroyed and ruined remains
He shaped the new and built the new as well;
Instead of the ship hit by sea and sunk,
He brought forth the new from the bottomless;
Instead of the bright color of the song which was forbidden
He painted the deep with sadness*
Instead of the nest thoughtlessly ruined,
He built us a home for our soul to dwell;
Against foreigners’ weapons and strength,
He armed us with might-He armed us with the new,
With a new weapon and yet so splendid,
Against which were helpless, arrow and saber,
Elephants and tanks,
And which would echo to the wordless cries of our spirit
With none but thunder.
Was He a weapon
Or a light, a light
Which the foreign wind could never put off,
But as it went on it became a fire
Endless, smokeless and of all pure flames,
So that in our days full of suffering
It would be our sunday, life-giving and gay.
Great as the danger that would threaten us,
And stronger as well than that same danger,
Against foreign fire spread everywhere,
He formed and carried our identity.
And against foreign incoming plague
Our all-knowing sage who had tasted death
Put his own health as a wall to resist;
Against dishonest milk he put*
Against quantity, wings,
Against numbers, flight,
Against blood , the ink,
Against sword, the pen,
And against*, the Library...
And as we always armed ourselves with Him,
We became with Him scattered everywhere,
Endured endlessly when beaten and hit,
Even when we were defeated from the* armies
**We were victorious in life---
We were victorious over evil times;
After being buried deeper foot by foot
We resurrected,
And we stood firm;
Endlessly falling,
We grew wings again;
Endlessly dying,
Persevered to live...
And now already*
But we are*
We’re not remembered
But we remember;
We’re not being witnessed,
But we’re witnessing,
After having reached yet to other times,
Always suffering from our quantity,
We’re now so proud of our new quality;
We, who were condemned to be satellites,
Are now proud of that sattelite which holds
Our own drive within its turning orbits,
And we’re proud as well of that new rocket,
In the flight of which there’s our miracle...
We lived in this way
And this way we reached!
Becoming red-hot,
We turned to * flow.
We older than old,
Became new with new.
All of this because
Of just Him alone...
Part K.
After all of this what can we call Him?
On our * railway
A sign or landmark?
A column
Or pole?*
Just some inventor of just some letters?
But when one speaks of the letters themselves,
Then He alone is greatest of them all,
As the most common and the simplest word
With Him grows to reach and become symbol,
And...man is dropped to be replaced by Man,
Temporary war by eternal War,
Pitiful sorrow* by mighty Sorrow,
The powerless self with powerful Self,
And the worshipper, by the Worshipper,
But the Armenian...by only Mashdots.
Mashdots...
That is a Man, who came to show,
That somewhere the end becomes Beginning.
A Man who showed us
There’s no miracle,
But only the need!
A Man who showed us,
Calling us to show,
That courage begins only at the place
Where every single resort had just failed...
1962, February
Yerevan
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
Whether with me, or without me, my dearest one, you will still grow,
With my help or without my help, you will someday still understand,
The way one must live in this life, the way one must look at this life,
The things that are cheap in this world, and the priceless things of this world.
Neither do I tolerate nor respect those who lecture to me,
I have always abhorred, my son, the flat sermons or the sharp ones.
But if I am, my dearest one, now reading a lecture to you,
It is only because often, very often in a man's life,
If time itself has a large share, the century has a large share,
The way he has chosen himself, has no little effect as well.
Perhaps like me you will also be surrounded often with this:
Often as I looked around me, I felt envy for those people,
Whose life passes so easily - as if it were a gravel way,
Without any barrier or wall, like a ruler so flat and straight,
School and then - soon a Pooh-Bah, influential big bell ringer,
And his warm place is then secured...You cannot live in this manner!
I would not want, that your life be like that a flat gravel way.
Don't pass over the asphalt road, you must prefer to build a road!
* * *
Live peacefully always with love, but do not flee from suffering;
It clears the eye from the eye's dust, it cleans the soul from the soul's rust.
One does not die from suffering, but one becomes yet stronger,
Later the heart that's recovered will bear its pain more easily.
Ah, do not mew! Your father has never endured the ones who mew...
It's much better, my son that you water your eyes with bitter tears
And continue on your own way. Let it be full of many stones,
But if inside your soul there is longing for good, kindness and love,
You will not tire, but you will walk and you will rise up the mountain.
For that someone needs a spirit, for that there is no need for wings.
* * *
You must be kind in everything, which kind person died from hunger?
There's no exile for what is true - why keep silent against the lies?
Yet around us there are people, who bend their waists when it's needed,
Who go ranting when it's needed, shut up or smile when it's needed,
They point fingers when it's needed...Don't be in life so immature,
You, understand, now from this head, do not forget, never, my son:
That kindness is only that which never changes no matter what,
It has white face; but yet never seven or eight colored linings...
* * *
Do not complain; you remember? "Days of failure...come but then leave"...
Do not complain. If you have been after goodness, reach it yourself...
Do not complain, but do not read life as if it were just a book,
Just like a book, far from yourself, as if reading about strange men...
Be always proud, not arrogant (only vain men are arrogant,
Your father used only this way to sort out the wise from the fool).
Be proud always like your father, for not ruining anyone's home,
For not breaking any kind word, for not jailing any kind mind,
That you have walked straight in your life, and if you have heard them often,
It is only for the reason that the petty business has thrown
In the market often only every kind of trivial rabble,
But you have no trivialities, you don't even have fake money...
* * *
You are still young, you don't know yet, how one must look at life itself.
You are still young. When you grow up, and become a mature adult,
My advices to you perhaps will seem so old and so useless,
Perhaps in life there will not be so many wounds and shortcomings.
Ah, may God give! I never dream of anything else in this life
(The blind, my son, as you well know, only desires a pair of eyes).
My advices, let them be old...the flower dies only that way,
When on the tree in the summer it turns to a ripe piece of fruit.
For the sake of the coming fire, I am ready to burn today,
For the sake of tomorrow's truth, let me today be in error...
INSIDE THE BIG CAMEL'S SMALL EAR
By Baruyr Sevag
* From YEGHITSI LUYS *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
Once upon a time,
Before us, people, who're unknown to us,
Have sat down and thought, and have created many various things;
To do this one thing,
Not do this other,
Consider this true,
But yet the other, to refute-expel,
To define so-called, a sequence of things,
Name what is honor, and ...what is duty...
And we are passing comfortably now
Through this museum of absurdity,
And we're wearing out not only our clothes,
But our wretched souls,
Upon whose bottom
There is something as intolerable
As sand in our shoes,
As the sharp thorn which is under our nails.
And passes over
The orbital play of the song's record
The needle of life,
By plucking away
Always that same and always painful song,
Wh—mich long ago has been without author,
Yet is considered
As authority indisputable...
And an unusual,
Very peculiar and heated desire
Has been chasing me
And pursuing me in the light of day;
And I am willing (and in place of you)
Not only to grunt, not only to growl,
But like a beast to roar vehemently,
Resting my lips on th—mis stone perhaps,
Or this modern-shaped circular table?
And I do not feel compassion but scorn
Toward those wretched animals which bear
The label of "tame",
In their opinion as an epaulet,
In my opinion
As an stigma of deep shamefulness.
Do you prefer the colossal camel?
Yet I seriously honor more than that
Even the muscle; even of the rat,
Which has not become tame until today...!
And when you are in a nightmarish sleep
In which the rats are gnawing you with love,
Upon waking up think for an instant,
Whether it is worth for centuries long
To sleep inside the big camel's small ear...
MOMENT OF DOUBT
By Baruyr Sevag
* From YEGHITSI LUYS *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
If I just had really believed
That my song could bring you some use,
I would have armed you with those songs like an army!
But what's the use to sit and write such so-called songs?
What is the song? Consolation of hurting souls...!
Even if it reached the right place it's an order that is undone...
Just two drops of blurry liquid of Valerian...
Which could even sting the bee which has died from its own sting...
Yet even if the song could turn to a weapon,
Where is the hand which willingly holds that weapon...?
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
WE ARE FEW, BUT WE ARE ARMENIANS...
By Baruyr Sevag
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
We are few but they call us Armenian...
We don't put ourselves above anyone.
Simply we admit that only we have,
That we, only we, have Mount Ararat,
And it is right here on the high Sevan,
Where the sky makes its exact duplicate.
To put it simply David has fought here,
And simply Nareg was written right here.
Simply we know how to build from the rock a monastery,
To make fish from stone,
To make man from clay,
To learn to become a student
Of the Beautiful
And Kind,
The Noble
And Good...
We are few but they call us Armenian.
We don't put ourselves above anyone.
Simply our fortune has been so different,
Simply we have just shed a lot of blood,
Simply in our lives of centuries long,
When we were many
And we were standing,
Even then as well we have not oppressed another nation.
No one was hurt from the strike of our arm.
Centuries have come, centuries have passed,
But over no one we became tyrants;
If we have enslaved,
Only with our eyes;
And if we have ruled,
Only with our books;
If we have prevailed,
Only with talents;
If we have oppressed,
Only with our wounds...
Simply with us death had fallen in love,
Yet we willingly did not give ourselves,
And when we were forced to leave our own land,
Wherever we reached, wherever we were,
Everywhere we left indelible trace,
We've joined efforts for everyone always...
We have built bridges,
We have tied arches,
We plowed everywhere,
And we brought forth crops,
We gave everyone
Mind
Proverbs
And songs,
Defending them from the coldness which is spiritual,
We left everywhere our eyes' reflection,
A piece of our souls
And a Sacrament from the heart itself...
We are few, truly, but called Armenians
And from being few we do not succumb,
Because it's better to be few in life,
Than controlling life by being many;
Because it's better rather to be few,
Than being masters by being many;
Better to be few
Than be swindlers...
We are few, yes, but we're called Armenians;
We know how to sigh from yet unhealed wounds,
But with a new joy to rejoice and cheer,
We know how to thrust into the foe's sides
And also to give helping hand to friends,
To repay goodness which was done to us
By compensating for each one by ten,
For the benefit of the just and sun
To vote with our lives, not only with hands...
Yet if they desired to rule us with force
We know how to smoke...and to quench their fire;
And if it's needed to disperse darkness
We also know how to turn to ashes like burning candles.
And we know as well to make love with lust,
But by respecting always the others.
We don't put ourselves above anyone.
But we know ourselves;
We're called Armenians.
And why should we not feel pride about that...
We are.
We shall be.
And become...many!
* Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian *
PROPOSAL TO THE COMPUTERS AND PRECISE GADGETS OF THE ENTIRE WORLD
By Baruyr Sevag
* From YEGHITSI LUYS *
* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *
You're counting, counting...!
Count for us therefore,
That with which wave, in how many minutes,
How many grams blood flows from a girl's heart
To her bashful cheeks,
Bringing forward that thermonuclear flame,
Which until today, we've been gullibly calling it blushing?
And just what kind of flow of cosmic rays
Passes in and through our atmosphered eyes,
When suddenly they touch some other eyes,
And this mutual radiation then,
Is it dangerous perhaps for our hearts
Or is it helpful?
You're counting, counting...!
Count for us therefore, whether how many kilowatts current
We gave with our palms
To the soft hair and soft hands of children,
To the agile trunks of those that we loved,
The humble shoulders of our grandmothers,
And what we got in return by how much
Was it more or less?
And yet you're counting, you're counting, counting...!
Count for us, please, also count for us,
How many women were gazed with desire
During his life by one of us at least,
And how many with clean admiration,
And how many with brother's tenderness...
Also indicate those women's places
Which were able to love us so deeply,
But nevertheless which we never met.
And yet you're counting, you're counting, counting...!
We still don't even
Know from what man smiles,
Only man himself,
And yet not other one living creature.
And also tell us
The number of waves within our own smiles,
Show us the many shades of their colors,
Make us understand the difference between
The smirk and giggle...
With your vigorous, electronic skull
And with your non-white and radiating Cyclopean pupil,
Analyze for us our longing-missing,
And synthesize that invisible smoke
Which separates from that longing-missing
And where does it go...?
But yet you're counting, you're counting, counting...!
Therefore indicate to us that date now,
At least that near year, that imminent year,
When finally all those wounded nations
Will become alive or will recover,
And when the wounding nations will receive
Their compensation, just and unbroken.
Yet there are many who for how many centuries have cut
Already their hopes from the cruel God,
But are still waiting!
But are still waiting!
You, who are the new gods of the new times,
At least, if only, you did not turn out to be fake as well...!
Count therefore and then tell us the number
Of those bridges which connect the countries,
Over which also
We had wished to pass,
But still have not passed
And will never pass...!
Show us the number
Of dreams and visions,
Which are called this way in this world only
For the reason that
They never come true...!
Indicate to us the undoubtable number of those doubts,
From which we often have become matured,
But yet more often wilted before time...
Show us the line of disillusionment,
And let's hope
That it at least does not have the shape of lightning...
And also the line of disappointment,
Beware that it may
Never to our lives become parallel,
Yet I think the lines which are parallel
Do not intersect...
Tell us the number
Of all those hours, numberless-countless,
Which during heavy and also light times were lost and were gone,
In the comings and goings of events
And in the reading of those newspapers, multilingual,
From whose black-flaming
Headlines each morning
The azygous eye of heavy firearms looks at our twin eyes,
And the submarines submerge our longings deep into our souls,
The hydrogen bombs
Want to convert the red blood in our veins
Into white water...
And after all this, you must also count,
And tell us after splitting how many tons of atoms we'll
Be able to split Earth's nucleus as well.
You must also count,
By giving birth to how many weapons
The mother will be unable to give birth to her children.
By telling so much
It will no longer be necessary to tell us as well
The amount of weight which we carry for being without faith.
There remains just that you elucidate,
With which miracle,
Under that load of being without faith,
We are not immersed deep up to our necks in the earth like stakes...?
In a friendly way, then tell us also,
Once in how many years to this world comes
That—m Anderson's child,
From whom
Kings will know,
That they are naked.
And please add also,
After knowing that,
D—mo the kings cover
Then their nakedness,
Or still continue to remain naked
And force those who wish just the o—mpposite,
Or still those who are simply the shy ones
To live on the earth
Having their eyes tied...?
And tell—m us, perhaps,
The Beethovenian deafness, could it be
Tied at all to those
Frightful explosions
Which inside —mthe world, and above the world
Are happening now!
And if it is tied, therefore, please explain:
Will the worl—md be with
Numberless-countless Beethovens happy,
Or just the number of the deaf people will simply increase..—m.?
And then count as well, just for one last time,
That by which method,
With which machine's help
It's stil—ml possible to keep man as man,
Or only just now to turn man to Man...?
