Naira Hambardzumyan


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Trans. by` Anahit Ter - Gazaryan
I' m not writing,
I' m settling you down
in my memory
In my sight,
The morn body is cold though,
As the shabby wall of the harmony
In the veins of dying breath…

My mind is like a flower bed,
Where – in the coquettish eyes of words
The window of light
Piks up the dew from
Percepts of roses
And engrosses my morn…

I̕ m not writing,
I̕ m settling you down
In my sight,
In my memory stores
I draw Gardens of Eden in blue
Gardens with open and closed doors…

My mind –
Desires morn,
The morn is so cold, though…

The day is in the own, slow glide,
And my sight is in the glide –
A narrow path,
A small garden,
The Sun̕ s hair which is
turning grey
And… "*Dlle yamman…!"
An apple – tree and three apples –
Leading on the lyre of ungifted winter,
All three are good for this world̕ s appetite…
But after the garden –
Horizonal infinite
And how much you̕ d like –
Apple – vinegar…
* the words are from a folk song, it̕s beginning of chorus the sing is typical for Western Armenia.

The Moon was knitting the own fishnet,
In order to put The sunless eye of awareness
On the alter of loneliness
In my myth less city:
I shouldn̕ t forget:
to hand back the keys of
triangular Paradise,
a shortage of light,
As butterflies don̕ t like
a shortage of light,
As pearles aren̕ t formed
in the shell now
from the dreams of illusory voluptuary,
and the poets
are alike
the colorful masonary of
my myth less city…

The eye
Will go deep down in my thoughts,
And I,
May be,
Will greet
the dampness of the soil,
that swings a seed to lull…

Let the Moon knit the fishnet,
to feel the wet flapping of water
in the own vein…

I̕ ll come
When executioner̕ s soapy hands
aren̕ t bloodthirsty
they bare the neck of your dream
To carry it through Calvary,
The world is still sleeping,
as that poem does
it is carryting us ti the beginning…
Another poem is also sleeping.
That fact will ease the briaking run of time,
In non-belivers̕ cathedral…

Wait for me
I̕ ll come
Leave the ordeal for me
And the soil,
The Mother soil!
with the restless womb,
with the patient fullness of the waist.
It will touch the breast full of voluptuousness
The breast of those woman
who for love is an entertainment…
I̕ ll come
At this season
I̕ ll say - Hello!
And the flower of pomegranate
Will repeat it
And I̕ ll try again to shelter patiently,
in invisible blue venus of my eyes,
the blood corpuscles of the planet-
called the Earth…

I̕ ll come
Let thousands of unknoun oceans roar,
because of the pain of obedience
And the heart –
pacified from the distant noise of the farewell,
Let him stay the same –
in the cold prayers of
all the dreams of the existence…

I̕ ll come
Leave me –
The bald froze of the winter,
and the purity of snow –
in the red cane filed…

Your share part of the way
is full of damp words,
it will be discovered
in the Universe
as the last song of the soft
beginning for sacrifice
and alienate…

Where is to
Your step,
Your living.
Your love,
Your thought,
Your heroism?
Which particular angle of thinking
I should watch from the
scent of the Moon̕ s loneliness?
How can I touch
the stretchened presence of absence?

Let me wake up again
In the sandy non – existence
ef the ancient consideration,
and let an orator owl
charm me again
with the song of the night̕ beginning…

When will the sand of the life
stop moving
in the salty waters if delights?
When was it?
The paradise apple was shared –
with the exact geometry of
sin and nothing…

Let your hands
Eliminate even the loneliness of the deserts
But anyhow, in the morning,
When the Sun rises, catch God̕ s fingers
In the deepness of the mirror
Not to destroy
The ceiling of your share illusion…

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* * *

And I will sleep one day
(like an old pre man)
Without the blanket.
And the wind will flap the foliage of the pines,
And the angels will hang from the night with bet eyes far away
In the time of their declension:
And again things will slumber in peace
Until morning
And the process again
Will mix signs to the life.
And there will be no one
To stop my fall,
In the time of declension.


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