The gloomy ghost of death wanders deceitfully and stilly, What has been done, he only knows. The mind knocks at doors aggrievedly Looking for a place to stay covertly… The wind of grief is repenting the sins, Day is a slave of old deprival, People drink tears with the palms affined Tears of the old whip and a new history. Losing again the mind by its own bite And still amazed at the false delusions, Flam hastily leaves the own mother In the incomplete and feeble darkness. And the children with the exceeding gladness Leaving the fusion behind Give their lives for the liberty And disappear among the lightful stars… It is a stage for joyance and cry Who will echo to our mourn? It will rain on this Earth, Children dreams’re troubled. Where should I hide these crazy beings Not making them the slave of your blood ? Don’t build a fire on the roots, I can’t respond to Ararats…
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Posted: Jul 2011
About this poem:
Hello to Everyone. The author of this nice poem is an Armenian nice poetess Ruzan Asatryan. I've just translated it from the Armenian language into English. People who know the history of the old civilazations and read some pages of the history of the Armenian nation, will understand the lines...
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