Our life changes every day. And woe to us, if we have no role in those changes. And again woe to us, if we have a role and the result is this.
Woe to actors, who return home through a backdoor of life, where even the creak of the door is unchanged.
Woe to journalists, who left life in peace and perceive everybody as heroes, who won’t be.
Woe to clergymen. Wherever you are without God, there is no God.
Woe to officials, who collect gratitude in their pockets and not hearts.
Woe to policemen, who with truncheons dictate the future of the state, where there is nobody.
Woe to judges, who with knives of the law grind the will of citizens against the Republic of Armenia.
Woe to the sick, who lie in the city: except of their illness they have no horizon.
Woe to the healthy, who are healthy in the city. They are only healthy enough to be sick.
Woe to doctors, who measure the rhythm of life according to the pricelist dictated by death.
Woe to grave-diggers, who measure the rhythm of death with the pricelist of life.
Woe to the rich, who give out bread in Temples.
Woe to the poor, who have no alternative to the bread given out to them.
Woe to writers, who still don’t know that the literature is also a co-author of the state budget.
Woe to philosophers, whose mind has trenched around all the ideas, which have no fight in them.
Woe to teachers, whose pupils are the same children of all times.
Woe to statisticians, who after graduation take up their profession with the unchangeable weather forecast.
Woe to the abased, who think humiliation has limits.
Woe to those, who swear. I don’t know a single badmouth man, who swore at somebody else.
Woe to those, who don’t love, as their merits stick in their throat.
Woe to lovers, who are afraid to lose each other. Their love is on death mode.
Woe to the philistine, as they like and hate following the current.
Woe to the disappointed, as they haven’t tasted real despair yet.
Woe to those, who rule on stairs. They are resellers of human beings.
Translated by Angela Grigoryan