Oshagan's most sacred tomb,
Land of genius, from where today,
A magnificent history
Of fifteen tempestuous centuries,
Freely moves toward You
Both Armenias from East to West...
Oshagan's greatest dead one,
You, with thousands of branches
Of the golden-flowing river of knowledge,
Savior of mind, Giant of hope, Center of life,
You, undying one who turned to dust,
You, storehouse of unextinguishable torches,
From where, in my days of childhood,
I came to light my brain like a poor man...
Sublime priest of Oshagan,
You, highly significant monk and the cup of God,
You, multi-perfumed gown of Jesus,
Fountain of speech, height of reason,
Endless summit of abilities,
You, pond of meaning and blue rain of prayer,
From a handful of your soil all of heaven still perfumes...
You, Oshagan's unperished clergyman,
Hermit immersed in the desert,
You, inculpable and a temple's recluse,
Forest of incense, fragrant garden of frankincense,
You, lordly spreader of Christ's noble word,
You, upright granite column,
And steeple of mind and limitless horizon of spirit,
You, autumn fountain of grace,
Being faithful from your faith, I cried as well...
In Oshagan immortally dead,
Unprocurable and senior educator,
I, a six year old dreamy child,
Your alphabet in my hand, spelling it innocently,
The first cross, from my forehead to my heart,
Believe me, O Armenian people...
I made it in front of your picture...
And listen today, from the lily-bodied,
Stammering children of the infant school
To the soil-perfumed old people,
Are singing the blessing of your Sacred name...
Oshagan's pile of soil where a genius rests,
Obscure sleeper by the altar of the church,
And Jehovah's message-bearing great Book's
You, emender translator,
Diamond key of the Golden Age,
You, frameless skylight of Armenian literature,
You, academy of marble thought,
Forgive that your drunken student
Is worshipping you after fifteen centuries...
God of Mind watching over us from Oshagan,
You, foundation stone of reaching high,
Golden-statured tower which fills up with light from the stars,
Where our brains smile...
You, silver sea of mental thirsts,
You, giant Moses born in Daron,
You, unapproachable author of mother-language,
Let those in my funeral procession,
In place of an incense box,
Burn my skull, on the last light,
With my lyre, full of ashes,
Upon the pile of your soil...
Feedback/Comments: The email address of Shant Norashkharian is:
MASSISSAR@AOL.COM
ARI (ARMENIAN REFORM INSURGENCE)