Friday, October 3, 2008


The city was breathing
crimson, white, cerulean…
Smooth sidewalks,
In wondrously serene,
clean, measured gasps.
They helped
Synchronize the pulse
of the city’s towers,
Before the hustle, while the pristine
Countenance of dawn still retained
The invisible dew of plants,
and meadows
before sunrise.
Or the last vanished scraps
of overnight hilarityscreamcries…
Serenity --
“Sainte Marguerite”,
our quiet street,
Which stalked with proficiency
The re-ascension of pyramids
From Egypt to the great, world-renown
museum near-by,
The monumental emergence of the temple
in the eternal city,
The prancing of the ram, and the lion
from Mesopotamia,
The awakening of the goddess Anahit
from Uratu, and
Stones, stones, stones,
eons, eons, eons…

* * *

The city was breathing-murmuring
As if seven hours before
A night of fireworks had never flared,
And the hotel-fortress
at the stark corner
of the square
Had not soared high into the sky
like a mystifying,
fearsome phantom,
With Count Dracula’s black cape
on its nape.
As if
There never were
Blazing rings
of frozen
hand, eye,
ardor, chase.
As if no crowd ever gathered
At Chinatown, and
Tom Jones
Had never freely excavated
the strata
of the tattered curtain of years –
Never was there a deluge of lights
and deflowered ones…
Now, the “Sainte Marguerite” avenue
Seemed so blameless,
One would guess
You could not
In one or two leaps
Reach the jaws of the huge
Chinese dragon,
The belly of the underground transit
incredibly awesome,
Which, instead of taking you
to the Armenian Church,
Delivers you to an area
of drugs,
and a near-by
organic food store,
Farm, village, village village,
Clear soup,
Pepper, mustard
And yellow, blue, green
oil, oil, oil…
As I look for eye-glasses
For my future;
The black dude says,
“Upon return”,
And, upon return,
It turns out
My petty mistake is forgiven.
And all is well,
All things
Have reached their destination.
Prescription… prescription…
The yellow city was breathing
Instead of the Armenian Church,
we reached Organic Village,
blue, yellow, green oil,
and a decrepit old man,
who has unbuttoned the blouse
of his homely spouse --
such an abundant breast,
as if newly varnished,
and polished.
Everything has gone back to its place,
Except for me --
Having left my tiny domicile,
I desire to return
To my abode,
Having already bought
For future use.
Eons, eons, eons,
stones, stones, stones,
my love,
my love,
my love…


the city was breathing
crimson, white
Had I known,
That after losing you
for so many years
You are living here.
I would not have waited
At the waking day’s gasp,
Inter-night laughterscreamssobs’
ripped shreds,
Bypassing the reappearance of the great
international museum’s
pyramids from the desert,
The re-erection of the temple
from the eternal city,
the rising of the ram, the lion
from Mesopotamia,
the arousal of the goddess Anahit
from Urartu
And disdaining eons, eons, eons,
Kicking stones, stones, stones,
I would have found you, my love…
And the city,
the pyramid,
Gushed red,
cobalt torches,
Far from being fireworks,
It was more a holocaust,
And Count Dracula,
Taking advantage of the general
Flung himself down
From the hideous roof
Of the fortress-inn
at a corner of the square,
Reaching the plaza
he broke,
he hacked
the fiery rings
of hand, eye,
fervor, flight,
Chinatown was sacked,
The gurgling monotone and black
Spitfire shift-shields of motorbikes,
To stand, In glorious warfare,
Against the javelins
Of an erupting volcano.
The Count looked for virgins,
To drink their warm blood
Under his black cape
And the blue mist of young skin.
Resonated with sirens,
And dispatched protests
To the all-powerful and incredibly awesome
And the volcano and the monster
engaged in an inhuman
mortal battle.
The cannibal wolf-man Count
Roamed everywhere,
Entering drugstores,
Drinking potions against
Cross, silver, chrism and metal.
Invisible in mirrored glass,
Yet he applied to his hair brilliantine
oil, oil…
Then, treating the metropolis
As a mountain town,
He located roof,
Tower dungeon
And facing the moon
Concealed behind
Clouds of thick
Volcano smoke,
Ashes and soot,
Ooo… ooo… ooo…
And you and I, my love,
in this nightmare,
In this frightful, apocalyptic
At last found and entered
The small yet warm and cozy
Armenian Church
To be saved
under the silver cross
of the priest in a black cassock,
drinking wine the color of blood.

* * *

…Outside they congratulated us,
The decrepit husband,
His varnished wife
And the virgins
Swooning to the robust singing of Tom Jones.
The awesome flood subsided,
The liquid fire of the lava froze
turning to icy snow,
The drops of blood dripping
From the fangs of the Count flowered
into myriads
of tiny, glitzy, glittering
violets on the floor,
A white waft drifted along,
A cool, shivering zephyr
Echoed a carol
Orbiting around
blue, yellow, green sea…

* * *

From the desert pyramids to the temple
of the eternal city,
From the altar of Mesopotamia
To the Urartian mask of Anahit,
stones, stones, stones,
eons, eons, eons
scripts, scripts,scripts…
And this is also script
Halved by the sword of fate,
These are lines
Turned to cinders in the fire of time,
Immolated in the flames of the furnace
of sighs,
In the wounds of regrets,
They are brittle, fragile,
They are throbbing, docile,
In short, they are stems of snow-flowers,
They are lines…born in your absence…

Translated By: Tatul Sonentz