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 thoughts and profound laughter.
My mother is asleep in miraculous events
That are fairy-tales; look from afar,
Or come near—they are her very life.
I know my mother will not wake up although she is asleep,
Because hers is the slumber
Of a bird in the nest;
For the first time, she lies so solemn
Like an astronaut before the flight.
Later, when the ship sailed over the shoulders of men
And took my mother out of this world,
The meadow’s beautiful wind entered our home,
With the hoe in its hand, directing the lost calves—
It came, sat on the threshold beside my shrunk father
And said: Well, well, I dunno.
Translated by Samvel Mkrtchyan
