Henrik Edoyan


Time passes
over me now
like a blind bird
leaving a feather

with which I write
on the gaping call of my memory
the names of

This is the image of a fina; assurance,
these are the ruins
of Acropolis
among which entangles
the stare of a casual


The sun plays on my face
running like a fly.
The street is floating
in a summer tide.

I remember
some mantras (translated from
Sanskrit) thinking of their

No, I am no Jesus,
I am no Buddha, either:
I can’t ressurect anyone,
I can’t sanctify
Mary Magdalene.
Can’t even heal an ailing arm.

The raindrop
falls and rolls
from leaf to leaf,
running and playing
like a kid.

The same old world
before my eyes.
Seems nothing has changed’
the same old drop running
along the curving branches of my years.

Sitting on this bench
today, I haven’t
recalled your name,
nor have I thought of you,
to say ‘Listen to me, if you can.’

A man and a woman walk along the alley.
they carry a puppet.
They didn’t look
at me. Just passed me by. Gone.


The day grows in me,
being filled and ripened; slowly, the hours
dissolve in my veins;
the waves beat against the shore,
it inflates, flowing out from all sides’
it is in me, although
it’s voices come from the outside.

I give away to it some blood-drops of mine,
some of the air I breathe,
of my vigor, my distress, my silence’
it takes what I take,
I furnish it with life’
its teeth exhume my chest
and reach my soil.

Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian 



Cold face, fashionable face, uncertain, unexisted face.
A town in dullness and with silly smile
A passer-by who tries to assimilate with crowd
Beside him two policemen are walking to his right and left
Above him the moon like a fingerprint on the sky
The twelve were sitting with heads down
One of them hides his face behind Thomas and waits
Soon a door will be opened in front of which
Life is not so clearer than behind it
We must still live three days without theLord
In three ruins of time.

We did not reach the place thither
Love reigns
Fear did not let us
Suspence entered into our steps. The fire kept us in a distance
Though its light was burning in our bodies
Between our faces the night was burning though summer midday was surrounding us
We pulled back our hands frightened with another intentions in which, alas, our existence turned into a vague preimage.
Our life is two biographies.
Written on different pages of the same paper.
How far is the place (which we did not approach)
And its strong radiation reaches from the distance of tens of years,
And it was put down and became a dead stardust.
I gave a part of my life to you, and now I am searching a space where I can sit on and look at approaching sunsets that look cool but come near with hope and horror.
Now doves sit on my shoulders. I hear rings of days past

Translated by` Karine Patyan


It Becomes Difficult Now

It becomes difficult now
to write a poetry,
or to live gazing on the tender ray
or on the open pages
of Gospel. It becomes difficult now to walk
in the street where you can’t see any close friend,
and every word,
and every silence
becomes an ominous
oblivion’s shroud.
It becomes difficult now
to rhyme the lines,
to connect them
with the invisible gauze
of feeling, thought or absurd.
The things become more arbitrary,
demand self-dependence,
freedom of speech and of breathing.
And the huge
stone-concrete town’s palate
demands its description
or resemblance,
a stupid word, an immovable step,
a nonsensical feeling mirage,
the tired consolation’s towel
on the brow.
It becomes difficult now
to meet
and to depart,
to say ”Good-bye”
and to confess.
Words are fading like frayed and torn
like memorial plagues
hung on buildings’ walls.
It becomes difficult now to read books
in front of the square TV-set,
to count the pictures of the past,
to touch the memoirs’ frame where lives
the heart pressed
in the hand of Revelation,
and when suddenly the world opens

it becomes a bird
and flies down on your shoulder.
It becomes difficult now
to sit down for no particular reason
and to look out of the window,
to see how the day comes
down the roofs of buildings,
and how the ivy climbs up
the wall, towards
the foot of the Creator,
and though he falls down on the half-way
a hand picks him up
at the same moment
and leads him up
to the open sky.

Two Lives

We didn’t reach together the point beyond which
love would reign. Fright kept us back.
Doubts crepted in our steps. Though flame kept
distance between us, its light was blazing
in our bodies.
The night burnt between our gazes, though
summer afternoon was around us. We couldn’t
touch each other
because of fright, because we intended to live
and our lives turned into indistinct prototypes.
Our lives had two biographies
written on the different pages of the same paper.
How far is the point (which we didn’t reach),
that its high radiation reaches us now
from the distance of a dozen years while
it’s gone out and turned into star-dust.
I’ve given you half of my life and I’m looking for
a space where I can sit and look at
the approaching sunsets, which are so cold,
but they approach bringing hope with them.
New doves
get down on my shoulders. I hear tinkling
of the past days.


I Have Touched The Life

What I have is nothing in comparison with
that one, what you have. I burn my day
in order to see
your property. I lose my words one by one
in order to hear just a word
from you. I drink my life
out of the cup of coffee and
burn my lips. With close eyes I read
my name written
on your waters. I come into
the period of my doubts
in order to be close to you.
I get out of time as
the soul of man out of your hand (as a line from
Dante’s Poem), as a ray
escaping from sun, which runs through the air
and disappears on the tin roofs.

Event, your scar remains
on the confused face! I go back to begin
to walk again. I’m not he
who has my face but I’m he
who has no face. I’m not my step.
I’m the speech
which hasn’t been ended. The incidents
and motions
take me with them,
but I’m not able to move. I’m at the same place.
The things change both their place and position
and are arranged quite otherwise, but life,
life is always the same –
it’s a glass full of water which has never emptied
passing hand by hand.

I go through the endless path, but I always wander
round the same name. I’m entangled
into the net of my illusion. I haven’t
any anchor in order to cast into the flowing waters
of time. ”Listen to me”, told me the century,
”We’ve lost each other, but as we have the same
kind heart, we’ll find each other again”.
I’ve touched the life and it’s struck me,
I’ve pulled out the blanket which’s been on it,
and have seen a heap of
meat, bones and dreams.
I have put names to every nameless thing
and they have taken away
my name. Coming from years I’ve approached
the instant,
searching myself I’ve found someone else. A hand
has kept me off
from decline of charm and concealed with palm
everything I’ve been searching. Reality’s
vigilant guards,
let me come in! you don’t know me,
and on the door you guard, is not any sight.

Translated by` Christina Kocharian


Stood the tree alone
The lone tree in its dream
withstood weather and barm;
it could articulate the storm.
It was more than a mere tree.
A man spent his life span
near that vocal tree
wordlessly, silently.
He was more than just a man.
Glistening like a steel knife
between man and tree
love crept in by degrees.
And slowly became more than love.
Then a song began to be sung.
In the dark silence it welled
uninvited, uncalled
and was more than a song.

Translation: Lilit Abajyan

Share Button