Page 16 - January 2021
P. 16

Yearning





                                         (Translated from Armenian by
                                                Harout Vartanian))
                                          Eduard Harents


                                      Eduard Harents is a famous poet from
                                                 Yerevan, Armenia.



                   The shadow of color                                   My name
                   is scaling                                            is a stone in God’s dream,
                   the scars of day;                                     with ornamental carvings
                   walking the serenity                                  of askew mirrors.
                   of an encountered dream…                              Through the rib bones
                   The flower is the secret                              of light
                   of pain;                                              my father’s cataract
                   an introspective smile.                               is tinkling on my tongue.

                   The scion names the sin.
                   Beyond personal bandages                              ***
                   of prayer,                                            After so much pious,
                   the self-denial of a tree                             loveless nights,
                   is as much bright                                     I have no idea from which
                   as warm are the hands                                 muscle of time,
                   of night.                                             but storms are ringing from myself
                   I am freezing… your name.                             apparently sweeping away all my
                                                                         morns, which
                   ***                                                   remained punched like that
                   I know, I will wake up someday                        up till now
                   from the mystical dinner,                             like the shoes
                   will wear my father’s                                 of a gold medalist student…
                   damaged footsteps                                     Interesting:

                   as little pockets                                     that much rich, so sonorous,
                   filled with immeasurable love…                        to which gates
                   Can my days − I wonder −                              will my evening – one day –
                   scale that much unbearable                            tinkle?
                   lightness?


                   ***










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        litterateur                            6                                          january 2021
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