To Arayig Shiraz

by Hovhannes Shiraz

* Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian *



My dear, as much joy as you are feeling,
As much you flower, as much as you sing,
So much roses of oblivion you pour
On the memories of my sad childhood...

Laugh, so my homeless memories may cry,

As I entered life and home I was yet a homeless orphan,
Although I have lost now my poor childhood,
But I have found now thousand gold childhoods.

*
Among roses, my dear one, you may forget me,
But when the thorns bite you then, call me, I shall come.

Under the sun, in the light, you may forget me,
But when your way is dark then, call me, I shall come.

Wherever I'm in a war or under the earth,
Whenever you fall in pain, call me, I shall come...

*
Thousand hearts under my chest get ruined,
When your foot touches a stone suddenly...

I have placed my head upon your fortune,
And no matter how many temptation rivers corrupt you,
On all the roads of your life I have placed
My head as a bridge over all of them.

My heart has turned to mother's heart for you,
My heart spreads like field under your feet,
My heart, my dear one, brought you to the world,
I'm the reason for your joy and sorrow...

If any one of your life's roses stings
A thorn into your finger like a tear,
Let that thorn my eye then suddenly sting,
Let my eye's flame then burn all of your thorns...

And him whom my death has brought to the world
That dearest bud life will not sacrifice,
Damned is he who won't hold like a mother
That dearest one like holding earth's future.

*
My son, be good and always remain good,
Always knead the good in this evil world,
Even in a sea of wickedness one will not become poor
If only a drop of goodness he brings.

Always do goodness, like a pure fountain,
Though the passing flood is cursed but behold,
Yet even the beast will silently bow
Like a thirsty man over the fountain.

*
The children are calling for me,
The children have not been patient,
The children brought to the city
Flowers of joy from the mountain and the valley.

But how would my dearest ones know
That it's not their pretty flowers,
But they themselves are the spring's life,
They themselves bring for us our spring...

Without flower
It's cold winter inside and out,
Without dear ones, my heart is cold
Under the snows of my own hair.

* * *
Translation Copyright 1996 by Shant Norashkharian

Feedback/Comments: The email address of Shant Norashkharian is:
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