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…
One was abashed by the other,
Subdued and orderly.
My family was sitting
In order from young to old.
They were sitting and waiting
Until grandpa arrived,
Until in the garden
The bell on our ox Tsaghik jingled.
Grandpa entered and with panache
Assumed his place at the head of the table
And the house swelled
With the scent and whisper of the field.
And when my grandma
Took her old ladle in her hand,
The spoons instinctively
Became raucous.
The warm steam from
The yogurt porridge
Ascended toward the beam,
And the column from top to bottom
Transformed into rolling beads.
They were relishing
Lavash and dill,
One working dynasty,
Plain and naïve…
Now from that dynasty
No one is left…
I remain simply as a memory
And as a witness.
It is dark. It is time for
The evening meal.
My melancholy gradually
Evolves into crying.
1962
Translated by Lusine and Alfred Mueller
