My mother writes: "O, my little emigrant son,
Until when will you remain under foreign moon?
Your days go by, until when will I not squeeze
Your unlucky head in my warm lap?
Enough that your feet, which one day I warmed in my palms,
Rise up foreign steps;
Enough that your heart, where I have emptied my breasts,
Perish away from my empty heart.
My working arms have become weary of the weaver;
I am now weaving my shroud from my white hair;
Oh, let my eyes see you once and then be closed
And let them close my soul under them as well.
I always sit in front of my door full of sorrow,
From every crane which passes I ask for your news,
That willow tree which you planted with your own hands,
Now shades me and shelters me.
In the evenings I wait for your return in vain,
All the brave men of the village come and pass by me,
The sower passes, also the noble shepherd,
But I remain alone with the moon!
In the ruined house I am abandoned,
At times thirsty for my tomb, always thirsty for our home,
Like a turtle whose broken intestine
Still sticks to its shell.
Come, my son, revive your father's home,
They have broken the door and emptied its cellar entirely,
All spring swallows enter
Through its crushed window.
From that numerous herd, alas,
Only a brave ram has remained in the staple,
Whose mother - remember, son - still a lamb,
Ate barley from your hand.
With superb rice flakes and the brook,
I nourish its gorgeous tail;
With boxwood brush I comb its tender wool,
It is a precious sacrifice.
On your return, I shall adorn its head completely with roses,
I shall slaughter it for your youthful life,
And in its blood I shall wash, sweet son,
Your tired emigrant's feet."
Feedback/Comments: The email address of Shant Norashkharian is:
MASSISSAR@AOL.COM
ARI (ARMENIAN REFORM INSURGENCE)
HAY PARENOROKMAN ABSDAMPUTYUN