SINKING ECHO
Lads, I leave you for a while
to see you happy and always together,
the pronoun WE has still been personal
but for other life no longer.
Rain is some distilled water merely,
forest is only a vital verdure,
every God day is unheired – undying
like a distilled baby in a vial.
Futility is our master and our servant.
Signboards don’t prompt us anything.
Are the dethroned legends dying
remembering us in other lights?
Have they died or slept for thousand years?
And from their breathing we have moved:
have we got thus much and nothing else
in this unheired – undying times from our God.
Be single pronouns!
I’m your voice calling from desert.
Alas, we grow old, Lads
and don’t believe WE’s existence.
FROM THE MISSING PAGE OF THE BOOK FOR PRAYER
Give me, my Lord, e.g.
the happiness which isn’t mine,
the temperance which a fish has got
in order to say not everything I want.
Make me unique
as an exclusive adjective!
Give me, my Lord, what is God’s,
and the rest to Caesar.
Give me the beginning,
the middle, the end of all the roads,
and give the rest to passers-by.
Look at me as at the poet –
I’m the creation of yours
being loveless, out of cash, mistrustful and sad,
as antipoetic as A. Shekoian.
There is no prophet on the crossroads.
No Kana’s wedding took place.
A black garden is stretched out to the Dog Star,
and on the threshold stands the Satan in “Hugo Boss” style.
The same is the place of all the kisses,
The same is the mother of all the women – Lilit,
And if, my Lord , there is a small place for kiss
is the part of grief belonging your dream
which was long before the endless waters,
when only you were the light,
And set your hope on the sixth day.
What’s then? I say –
The first day of spring brings chirping with it.
Pharisees have it their own way.
Parisians pray the Virgin Mary in the wrong way,
their mere words rise from Karahounch to Stown Heng, and then away, –
“An acquaintance is being drowned in the ‘Oblivion‘ river”, he says
these words about every new passer-by.
“There hasn’t yet been a place for me”,
And I come back from the half way, “I’ve unfinished works”.
I come back from the half way of my future,
so I remain on the half way…
Let give me, my Lord,
a divine paper,
that I can stay a little more before going,
take me into consideration
as your Son’s silence and smile.
Close the shell not to lessen all of a sudden
this poor half-way’s
non-private, invisible, unmerciful joy
inside the neat, tinned and sleek shell.
Translated by` Christina Kocharian
