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.
One day there will be no essential difference between the tree and me
neither in shape nor purport;
We will be a pedestal for others’ steps and roots,
But as for now
We blossom together,
Hobnob rarely
Unaware of each other’s reflections,
Subtle and silent
And very green.

***
In the human noise of the motley shop
and in the rustle of goods passing from hand to hand,
the loneliness woke up again
in my stomach.
I tried to suffocate it and/or
shut its mouth,
but the more the happy noise grew,
the more the lack of any sense
sharpened.
I closed my ears.
I closed my eyes.
And music flew out
from the very depth
very similar
to the noise of the shop.

***
To see happiness best
I narrowed it
So that it suits
the shortest way home.

***
I’m leaving the distance between us
on tiptoe:
Let this separation
Stay incomplete.
***
The last thing I forget before falling asleep
And the first thing I remember waking up;
It’s the unevenly sewed fibers on your collar;
All the time I’m thinking how to even them.

***
Lord,
Do not let all my prayers
Realize so soon,
As from the first day of creation
Im still praying for a big
Cup of patience.

***
This is a medium madness, my love,
It will pass away, don’t worry, it will pass away.
We’ll be back to your desired abyss
Away from anxiety and passion.
These are motives of medium…
We’re enjoying the sickness of the day.
The name and picture of everlasting
We change each second:
It will pass away, don’t worry, it will pass away.
One day when we come to the beginning point,
Fed by today’s anxiety,
All our promises-debts
Will lose their role at all.
My love, this is a medium happiness,
Medium fears that will pass away…

***
I will create you, Brutus, from nothing,
with familiar features;
to kill the same traitor in me
every day.

***
I love fairy-tales
where the girl does not throw her braid of hair out of her window of the castle
easing all the barriers on the road of the boy,
but the boy breaks the door of the castle
and gets upstairs as in common.
I love the ending
when three apples do not fall from heaven,
But the seeds of the apple
are being carefully sown in the garden.
I love the supposed continuation of the fairy-tales,
when the youngest bravest of the three born sons
does not leave father’s home to search for his luck
but raises the apple tree in the garden.
I love real fairy-tales.
I do not love the realty.

***
Laughing, we went to requiem,
Laughing, we went upstairs,
Laughing, we went downstairs,
Giggled seeing the wreaths
And hardly held our smiles
Hearing the wail of the decedent’s
relatives.
The evening was so wonderful,
We so much wanted to live.

***
Yesterday a few napkins were left
in the napkin box,
that was the last witness of our relationship.
But today
the last one wiped off
the wetness of the window,
and outside
began to be glimpsed.

***
Of your king-kind manners
I crouch,
dwindle,
crumble:
but the Queen
stands up
inside me.

***
Throwing old things away
It seems so easy
To jump into the trash
Yourself.

***
The car
coming from front
was driving by the road to our dreams;
we didn’t dare to warn the driver
that where he goes
there are only ways back.

***
I like leaving
Because I like the bump of the door
behind my back.
And sometimes it’s nice to feel the cool wind
On thousand miles away from home.
Loving you is like wandering
In some unfathomable crossroads,
Where white flags flap blessing
On roads with any epilogue.
I will never be back there
Where they return despondent of possible distances.
Even if drunk angels have fallen asleep,
There are doors that you open only when leaving.

***
Your name is slipping around me
appearing on different things,
it’s looking at me as if by chance.
And I remember
that you were there;
that you were looking at me as if by chance,
and things were slipping around us.

***
The most cruel thing is
waking up on Sunday morning
of noises gagged inside,
that do not endure
the peace of the dawn.

Translated by Nune Levonyan