Nune Levonyan | I love fairy-tales
The tree and I get evenly old, but the tree does not make a tragedy of it and each Indian summer does not write poems of defoliation. The tree and I have similarities: we love to dress up and be beautiful to death: but I do not allow common passengers to cool in my shadow....
Ghukas Sirunyan | My mother is asleep
MY MOTHER IS ASLEEP My mother is asleep beneath the rows of red pepper, Beside the gourds relishing the sun like grandmothers— In the windy warmth of the autumn leaving the meadow. My mother is asleep beside clemency, worth, and fruit-trees, On the edge of vigor, jealousy, and precarious undertakings, Beside the smoldering hearths, vivacious...
Aram Mamikonyan | Two poems
pain was only a woodpecker perched on a temple ma, my hands are torn out daddy, you are far and we are not so much poets to lie at the bottom of the ocean and lit a cigarette till the moss flows and fills our mouths and again a monday drunk and hard-moving, i shall...
Hamo Sahyan| Day Turned Dark
Day Turned Dark To Sero Khanzadyan It is dark. It is time for The evening meal. My melancholy gradually Evolves into crying. They descended contemplating, bowing On the corner of the haystack, One heaven made of milk dough and One half-moon…
Ashot Avdalyan | And you wake the day
DEEPER IN SLEEP THAN A THOUSAND YEARS Deeper in sleep than a thousand years I am kinder than a thousand fairy tales, And more than any spring the mists here Can hear the purling of the warmest creeks. Emptied by my forefather’s hand And in his hand completed, ended, Live these days on the warmest...
AVAG YEPREMYAN | Truly I Say
Truly I Say Where we left each other, Our children Will come and go From our disease they will suffer, I know otherwise— upon our tombs, out of our dust roses will grow. Dead Points As an unuttered word, the Whole is here, indeed, the Ruins of Past-Present- Future—in the Same Pre-Seed. Eternal like...
TIGRAN PASKEVICHYAN | The seventh day
HANGOVER Lend me a hand, my dears and nears, I have run out of my wine in the cup of my three and thirty years. I get sober from the morning bolls; lend me a hand. Does the wind blow late, or Won’t your hand find me anymore? I depart unhurriedly in a slow pace,...
Petros Durian | Little lake
LITTLE LAKE WHY dost thou lie in hushed surprise, Thou little lonely mere ? Did some fair woman wistfully Gaze in thy mirror clear? Or are thy waters calm and still Admiring the blue sky, Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, Are drifting softly by ? Sad little lake, let us be friends! I...
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