Mounts… high, emerald mounts… You, that are the land and throne of the gentle breeze, sweet-scented flowers, sacred verdure and dews, of lively, cold springs, gloomy clouds, igneous lightnings, gush of waters… You, that are so close to the Almighty, the stars, the moon, to the celestial grants and mysteries, solemn and majestic mounts…
Is there an earthly creature, who is as solemn and proud, as noble and pure, as your own adoptee – the birth of your winds and breeze, flowers and lightnings, the shepherd you love so much and cherish?
The shepherd of the mounts – strange and unfamiliar to painful moan and groan of life, vile acts, to the behaviours of a sponger, he is proud and joyful like those wild flowers of yours.
But, despite their odour and appeal, your wild flowers are often trod upon, getting defiled under heavy and rough feet, turning into a layer of mud.
***
In some town, in the yard of some high-rise building, a tall, broad-shouldered young man was blowing his pipe and dancing. He was wearing raggle-taggle clothes, and a heavy hat of a Kurd on his head.
His shepherding pipe sound was lively, and merry was the tune he was dancing, only were sad his dark, burning eyes, which would, now and then, look up. Now and then they would look up, probably to see if there’s anybody on the balcony or not, they would look up, but… they were not the eyes of a beggar…
Sad was his manly face rimmed by his sparse, reddish beard, with a remarkable aquiline nose and puffy lips. And he, himself, was a whole grief embodied in one, but still he was blowing his pipe and dancing.
His rags were leaping up and down, touching his high hips and naked shanks, composing a rather funny scene, which greatly disgraced his mighty posture and bitter sadness.
“Kurd, Kurd…” shouted the children, and the family, having just finished their meal, tramping went out to the balcony on the pipe tune to watch the poor Kurd.
Getting more and more excited, the Kurd doubled his vigour, trying hard to show all his talent, making various grimaces and mummeries… And he was achieving his goal – they were joyfully giggling from above.
But none of them ever thought why the dancer himself never laughed, and why he was the only one to be sad…
And what would change within that poor Kurd if he was asked about it? He needed some black coins, so he took them and left.
He went into another yard.
He was going to start his dancing anew, when someone asked,
“ Where are you from, my son?”
“ From Sasun, my master.”
“Then, why are you here?”
“ I was a shepherd, my master, the Turks came and destroyed my country… took away my sheep…”
He raised his arm, where he was carrying a wide scar left from a dagger, he took his hat off and showed the wound on the head, probably he wanted to say how hard he struggled against the implacable foe and didn’t surrender easily. He put the hat on, and again began blowing his pipe and dancing.
— Где это Сасун, папа? * (Where is that Sasun, father?) — asked the young lady, gently clinging to her father.
— Это там,… далеко, * (It’s over there… far away) — well-nigh replied father and went on « merrily» watching the poor piper, who was dancing with various mummeries bellow – in the yard.
His shepherding pipe sound was lively, and merry was the tune he was dancing, only were sad his dark, burning eyes, which would, now and then, look up…
And was leaping and dancing the shepherd of the mounts of Sasun – the homeless shepherd, the sheepless shepherd. His rags were leaping up and down, touching his high hips and naked shanks, composing a rather grievous scene.
Translated by Liana Sargsyan
