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#1 ED

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Posted 05 October 2003 - 01:58 AM

I came across of this acceptional peace of work by Gevork Emmin, and it touched me in a very special way, I wanted to share it with you.

Enjoy

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Traveler Of The Eternity
By Gevorg Emmin
Translated from Armenian by Perch Mesrobian
Typesets by Armine Movsesyan
If I were a musician and composer I should dedicate to Armenia and its people a majestic mass or symphony for orchestra, choir and soloists.

A deep voice --- the voice of the Armenian people --- would narrate its story and that of the country, to the accompaniment of the orchestra, performing in the spirit and idiom of the centuries-old melodies of the Armenian people. On the other hand, apart from interpreting and embellishing that story, the songs of the choir would ask questions in elderly, juvenile, feminine and childish voices in an effort to grasp the meaning of the uttered words.

A way-worn, storm-tossed yet seasoned and strong-willed traveller is bending his steps in our direction from the depth of centuries, along war-torn paths, through fire and swords. As he comes nearer to us, his bearing becomes more erect, and his look --- smarter and more defiant. Massacre and exile, plunder and fire, wail and moan have given way to the rumble of peaceful life and labor, and the monuments and buildings, songs and laughter keep growing in number and proportion on this desolate and lifeless path.

“WHO ARE YOU, TRAVELLER? ” would ask him the voice of an old man from the choir.

But the traveller would not answer him right away that he is Armenia and the Armenian people.
Such a prompt answer would sound unbefitting to the son of a country and people boasting multi centennial history.

He would pause to scrutinize the old man, hearken to the mellowed sounds of the orchestra and the choir before making his answer:
“I am the one whose suffering is measured by dozens of centuries but the span of his life --- only by scores of years…”

“The one who, having succumbed to countless wars and slaughters, is only now relishing the delight and sweetness of life.”

“I am that corn-field which has for ages been trampled under the hoofs of riders and has been scorched by fire and drought,
and only today a handful of it has come down to yield a bumper crop.”

“I am that unbending tenacious grape vine whose roots go deep into Armani, Hayassa and Nairi, while it fruits and leaves are refreshed by the dew of today and ripened by the radiant sun of tomorrow…”

“I am life itself, immortality…”

“I am the one who has experienced death all the time, yet has never yielded to it…”

“What could the number less assassins do to me? All in all they knew how to kill, but I was initiated into the divine mystery of surviving and enduring.”

“Their weapons were the spear and the yataghan; mine were the hammer and the pen… And what could the most splintering spear do in the face of the hammer, or the sharpest yataghan --- vis-à-vis the pen…”

“Not withstanding their multitude, my butcheries were getting tired of slaying and ruining, whereas my creative and constructive impulse was gaining in momentum with every passing day, every passing hour…”

…These would be the words uttered by the deep voice which, though sounding familiar to the ears of its auditors, would fail to place the traveler, and a youthful voice would ask him again:

“WHICH IS YOUR HOME COUNTRY, TRAVELER?”

But the traveler would not tell him right away that his home country is Armenia; that would sound unbefitting to the son of a country and people boasting a multi centennial history.

He would eye the youth who had asked him the question and give ear to the troubled sounds of the orchestra and the choir before making his answer:

“My home country is the one that lies at the foot of biblical Mount Ararat, on the spot of the mythical paradise where life has been a hell for ages…”

“It is the land where war and calamity have been imported for chiliads of years --- orphans and refugees have been exported; crime and black deeds have been imported --- light and genius have been exported; barbarity and violence have been imported and aspiration to freedom has been exported…”

“The land abounding in stone where, however, only Jesus had a stone-built house and that land could not often place a tomb stone on the greaves of the most beloved of his sons…”

“My home country is the one where rivers have for ages tossed their manes against the rocks and have gone wild and grown turbid from idleness, leaving the nearby soils lie fallow, only now turning light and green…”

“The country whose land has for ages been watered by bitter sweat is only now yielding its ages-old hoarded sweet crop…?

“The land born of the sword and fire of the reed pipe, which has for centuries suffered from the evil blaze of wars, is only now warming up from the lambent fire of factories and furnaces…”

“That land of old parchments and books which has for ages resisted, with its courageous regiment of thirty-six letters, the threats of all its enemies that have spared no pains for its assimilation and elimination…”

“The land whose song, initially tucked away high in the mountains, is now spreading far and wide like a crane son hovering above alien shores.”

“These would be the words uttered by the deep voice, telling its life story to the accompaniment of violins, trumpets and rums, and the choir-mob listening to the narration would muse: “Could this be Armenia, the Armenian people?”

But as the conclusion is not final, a remake voice would ask again:

“WHERE DO YOU COME FROM, TRAVELER?”

But the traveler would not answer right away where he came from, nor would he speak of the ordeals on his centuries old path. That would sound unbefitting to the son of a country and people boasting a multi centennial history. He would smile, bob his head and fix his gaze on the woman who asked the question, and would pronounce under the solemn strains of the orchestra and the choir:
I’m coming from the land of Armani, recorded in the annals of world history in the oldest Akkadian inscriptions as early as five thousand years ago…I’m coming from the land of Hayassa, one of the world’s ancient cradles of the human race, that ordered me: “Call yourself Hay.”

“I’m coming from Lake Sevan, where I was catching for the royal feasts of King Arguishti the regal fish stained, from the very outset, with the blood of my race…”
“I’m coming from Tigranakert where I set on a firm basis the throne of my state, washed by three seas. I’m coming from Artashat --- “The Carthage of the Armenians” --- where once I placed on the stage the severed head of the arrogant general Marcus Crassus…”
“I’m coming from Echmiadzin where my only begotten son, Mesrop Mashtots, also descended to write for the first time on this land the word ARMENIA in Armenian characters…”
“I’m coming from Ayarayr where, although my light cavalry was trampled under the heavy Persian elephants, yet tyrant Hazkert retreated to his land, startled by my unswerving resolve for survival and endurance…”
“I’m coming from the high mountains of Sassoon where, despaired of king and God, I put my trust in tale and miracle as I drew the sword of shepherd David and drove out countless troops of Msra-Melik.”
“I’ve been to so many parts of the world and am coming from so many lands… From Artashat to Tigranakert and from Vagharshapat to Dvin and Ani. For ages I have fought for my liberation from the Romans and the Persians, the Byzantines and the Arabs, the Seljuk's and the Mongols, the Tatars and the Turks in the name of my homeland, reduced to a handful, in the name of the subsistence of the left-over of my people…”
“I’m coming from metropolitan Ani --- in captivity and ruins --- now regenerating in the monumental memorials of New Yerevan…”
“I’m coming from desirable Cilicia, laved by the waves of the blue sea, where my last hope for independence was, alas! Consigned to the tomb…”
“I’m coming from the high inaccessible mountains of Syunik where I kept the ashes of my statehood aglow on the crossroads of stormy winds. I’m coming from the fort of sardar where the Armenian sword and the Russian cannon fraternized…”
“I’m coming from the towns and villages rescued from Persian tax extortionist from the towns and villages groaning under Sultan’s yoke, where every Zeytoun is an explosion and every Sassoon --- an outburst of wrath…”
“I’m coming from Der-Zor, from Meshkeneh and Ras-ul-Ayn where I withstood trial and tribulation, where my back was broken but I set it right again; I was slain but resurrected once more…”
“I’m coming from Moush, from Mount Andok and the orchards of Van, from Urfa and Shabin-Darahissar, Hajn and Moussa-Ler, where I was up in arms defending the honor of my native home but later, alas! I took the wanderer’s staff and roamed worldwide…”
“I’m coming from Sardarapat which became a new Avarayr to me and where, though blood-drenched, I stemmed the stormy onward march of the Turkish butcherers and snatched a tiny land in my own home country for a handful of my orphans and refugees…”
“I’m coming from the mines of Ghapan and Alaverdi, from the station of Alekpol and the orchards of Yerevan where I rose up in the name of the Revolution, in the name of a new life…”

“I’m coming from the gorge of the Hrazdan where the electric heart of Armenia beat for the first time; I’m coming from the bank of Shirak canal whose tiny waters irrigated the well-spring of my renascence…”

“I’m coming from the slopes of Aragats where I bridled the blue racer of cosmic rays. I’m coming from Byurakan where I converse with the distant planets and stars…”

“I’m coming from time-honored yet new Yerevan, which is my reborn Tigranakert, Artashat, Dvin, Ani and Sis, all in one, now turned into a holy shrine for all Armenians scattered worldwide…”
…And the choir-mob would listen to all this in prideful surprise…
“AFTER ALL WHO IS THIS STRANGE TRAVELER?”
Would muse the choir before a cheerful childish voice rang out:

"DON’T YOU HAVE A NAME? WHAT IS YOUR NAME, TRAVELER?”
But the traveler would not utter his name at once; he would not say that he is Armenia and the Armenian people. Such a prompt answer would sound unbefitting to the son of a country and people boasting a multi centennial history… He would fix his searching gaze on the child who asked the question, would hearken to the rattling sound of trumpets and violins, drums and cymbals, reminding one of his life story, and would reply pride fully:

“My name?.. Can I have one when I lived in all the ages, in all parts of the world as plebeian and prince, fanatic and sectarian, commander and mason, architect and narrator, limner and scribe?..”

“Hayk is my name. I’m stalwart Hayk who quit the fertile soil and the paradise, preferring to live in hell and on barren rocks, to live free from the yoke of Bel, the tyrant…”

“It was I who bequeathed my freedom-loving spirit to my people, baptizing this land and the people by my name: Hayk, Hay, Hayastan…”

“Ara is my name… I am the Spirit and God of Arousal and spring, of dying and regenerating nature --- the symbol of my ever-dying yet ever-reviving people…”

“I’m Tigran the Great! The mightiest sword of Armenian land whose blighted destiny proved, alas! Seven times as strong as my sword…”

“I’m Mesrop Mashtots… My home country is torn asunder between perfidious Byzantium and imperious Persia. And neither the sword of Tigran the Great nor the cross and lamp of Gregory the Illuminator could save our land until we engraved our name on it in the letters of mother tongue…”

“I’m bequeathing to you thirty-six letters and a staunch people and country that will know no death as long as it spells those letters…”

“I’m Vartan, courageous commander Vartan. It was I who opposed death by death; my own death won over the death of m people and it turned into song and take in the grateful heart of the Armenian people…”

“I’m Khorenatsi. It was I who channeled the sluggish river, meandering through the venerable history of the Armenians into its bed, so that it should flow everlastingly and narrate unendingly the great exploits of our small people…”

“I’m David the Invincible, the first Armenian philosopher who talked and argued in Armenian with Aristotle and Porphyry as he laid the foundation stone of Armenian philosophy…”

“I’m Ananya Shirakatsi. It was I who showed my people the world map and the location of Armenia on it…”

“My name is Trdat (Tiritdates), Manvel and Hovnan… I’m the architect and builder of stone-made Armenian landmarks and monuments…”

“Could my Garny and Zvartnots, Akhatamar and Tekor, no matter how solid-structured, stand erect when the land of the Armenians was in the clutches of calamities?.. However, even in ruins, they betoken our lapidarian signature and seal on this earth, defying annihilation and bondage…”

“I’m David of Sassoun, stepping out of the tale, yet more real than the most authentic heroes of Armenian history… And the people looked to me when their patience wore thin, and with the single bound of my horse Koorkik Jalalyi jumped down from the ninth century over the heights of Sassoun to the gates of New Yerevan…”

“I’m Sembat, sectarian Sembat of Zarehavan. When Free God turned simply into religion and faith --- into the church, it was I who dared to raise the sword against the cross that had once become the crucifix of the Armenian plebeian…”

“It was I who sent the caldron of holy chrism rushing down the height rock of Tatev in such roaring thunder that it echoes resounded from the fortress of Tsurea to Bulgaria and reverberated in the cell of Martin Luther…”

“I’M Narekatsi, the giant volcano of poesy erupted from the mountains of Armenia whose rumble has been shaking the ages…”

“I measured the highest point of the sky and the deepest abyss of the human soul before I realized that man created God ant not vice versa, though I was apprehensive of God’s might…”

“My name is Frick. It was I who wrote the ‘Complaint’ not only about Him, but also about the world sanctified by Him which is peopled with lords and servants, plebeians and patricians…”

“The readers moved by stealth from one monastery to another to read my ‘Complaint’, and of scribes, awe-filled, copied its lines in the margins of the “Selected Homilies…”

“I’m Galdzak, thrown into the dungeon at the bank of the river Azat, who cut the rock of slavery with his pick of Liberty to build the miraculous monastery of Gueghard…”

“My tear-swollen soul was heavier with pain and sorrow than the rocks of Gueghard…”

“I’m the cluster of lay songs that brightened the somber sky of the middle Ages…”

"It was I who sang the green tree of life, instead of the crucifix and the fragrance of spring flowers in lieu of incense, and well as feasting and merry-making on the grass in lieu of the censer’s smoke…”

“I’m Mekhitar Heratsi, the physician… It was I who toured the Armenian hamlets and boroughs, lying in rack and ruin, to battle the plague reaping human lives…”

“It was I who wrote the book ‘Consolation to Fever’
The contents of which were intended to give solace to the physicians and restore the health of sick men…”
“I’m that young and old scribe who, in the candlelight of the dark monastic cell, copied in clear legible letters the manuscripts and memorandum books telling of my hard times…”
“ ‘My hand will go but my letter will stay’, I said seeking solace in my dismal days. And though my hand turned into ashes my writing outlived the ages to reach the Matenadaran of New Yerevan…”

“I’m Toros Roslin, Tseroun Tsaghkogh, Sarkis Pitsak and that anonymous Armenian miniaturist who ranged the steeps and vales to assemble bit by bit the cochineal of the Armenian soil and the golden hue of its wheat, the blues of the Armenian sky and the greens of its valleys, pouring all this into his paints that were bound to strike the posterior generations with adoring wonder…”

“Take a close look at our paintings of Christ and the Holy Virgin; they portray the visages of our victims murdered in modern times, and our unspoken affections…”

“I’m Nerses Shnorhali whose heart, stricken with the grief of Ani, bemoaned the fall of Yedessia in recurrent Arabic rhyme and, alas! In ever-recurrent Armenian suffering…”

“I’m Nahapet Kouchak who spelled out in Armenian his pathetic chant about the white-breasted Armenian bride and his exiled sweetheart… My ‘Hayrens’ were four lines in all --- a quatrain… Yet this single quatrain of ‘Hayren’ harbored the unplaced exile while my ‘Antouny’ afforded shelter to the homeless…”

“I’m Israel Ori who took the insurgent spirit of Gharabagh to Petersburg; I’m Hovsep Emin who, in the name of salvation of Armenia, replaced the cross by the sword in the hand of the Armenian…”
“I’m Sayat-Nova. I had a perfect command of four languages; Armenian, Georgian, Persian and Turkish and…one more --- the undying idiom of song that secured my existence for benefit of posterity…”

“Abovian is my surname and Khachatour --- my first name… It was I who saw from the summit of Massis the dark of my country and the light of salvation dawning from the North. I made the wounds of Armenia into a song and disappeared traceless in the eventide for my intrepid race of Aghassi to stay in existence…”

"I’m Mikael Nalbandian… The only true religion worthy of professing is Liberty for the sake of which I suffered and for which i was murdered…”

“I’m Raffi… The combatant and prophet of the liberation of my Armenian brethren groaning under Sultan’s yoke… The ‘Sparks’ that I sowed kindled the blazing fire of the national-liberation struggle which, alas! Was put out in the gushing blood of the genocide…”

“I’m Komitas --- the eternal bell ringer of the church of Armenian songs… It was I who cleaned up the ever trickling stream of the Armenian song of its foreign mud and turbidity and made its pure gurgle heard all over the world…”

“I’m Daniel Varouzhan and Siamanto. It was I who sang the Armenians’ ‘Heathen Songs’ and ‘The song of the Bread’, the horrors of the genocide of the Armenians and the handul of ashes of the native home, and though I was put to the sword by the Turkish butcherers still I heard, before my death, the, Red News’ reaching my land and people…’

“I’m general Andranik --- my hard-pressed people’s revengeful spirit, now soaring high like an eagle over the mountains of Armenia… Though I quit my native
Land, embittered and broken-hearted, yet I left behind my sword of which even the glitter strikes terror in the hearts of my foes…”

“I’m Stephan Shahumian… It was I who illuminated Baku and Transcaucasia with the torch of the October Revolution, hearing before my death in the desert of Akcha-Kuyma the gurgle of the canals of new Armenia…”

“I’m Toumanian, the singer of the heaven-reaching mountains of Loree and the bottomless sorrow-laden abyss of the Armenians… It was not I who wrote… The mountains and gorges used my hand to write about distress and faith of the Armenians. It was the Armenian people that wrote with my hand about he age long forayed caravan trailing inexhaustible treasures across the gulf of centuries…”

“I’m Vahan Terian --- the singer of the great city, the singer of the great city, the singer of autumn and sorrow. The path of my life and my song were like the autumn alley bestrewn with fallen leaves --- a melancholy alley which, however, took me to Dawn to glorify the red, blood-hued banner of October…”

“I’m Charents, the storm-breathing Narekatsi of the Revolution. It was I who glorified “The Maddene Mobs” struggling for the October Revolution, hunting in their footsteps for the radio-signals of the forthcoming spacecraft…”

“I’m Alexander Tamanian --- the happiest architect who lived in a country where the entire nation was inflamed with the fervors of construction… It was I who, on a happy day, designed New Yerevan --- the centuries-old dream of my creative people --- the like of which we’ve never had…”

“I’m Isahakian… I loved my native land, but it turned into an unhappy motherland to me; beautiful as its mountains and gorges were, its sons were victimized in a vast blood-bath. …Therefore I joined Abu-Lala Mahari’s caravan to roam at large in foreign lands before the revival bells of Armenia called me back home, and I found eternal place in my homeland…”

“I’m Martiros Sarian… The reds and the gold's, the violets and the greens, amassed bit by bit by the medieval limners, reached me… It was I who charted the particular site and inviolable frontiers of Armenia on the world map of painting…”

“I’m Vahram Papazian…What countless stages of the world have acclaimed my Othello! And numberless Desdemona's have fluttered in my arms! …But on all those stages I pined for OUR TOWN and mercilessly “smothered” many foreign-born Desdemona's, longing to embrace the Armenian Desdemona on the Armenian Stage.”

“I’m the astronomer Victor Hambartsumian… Small is the land of the Armenians, yet its borders extend from Byurakan as far as the stars, and the distant galaxies and constellations thou me…”

“I’m Marshal Baghramian and Admiral Issakov whom the water-free stones of Armenia have brought into this world. In the infernal days of the genocide, when our people was drenched in blood, who lent a helping hand to it? And again, a short time ago, in the days of the Great Patriotic War? Did we, the Armenian sons of the great family of peoples, not save the European nations and races crucified on the crooked cross?”

“I’m Aram Khachaturian… Making the plain and fair melodies of my people into mighty symphonies I sound them far and wide, telling the world the story of the rebirth of my age-honored land…”
“I’m that peasant who has been growing the vine that shapes the fate of my people and is the same age, and the wine squeezed from it is as bitter as our ordeals of past days and as sweet as our faith in the unborn Tomorrow…”

“I’m that young Armenian worker and specialist whose skillful hands have made the super-precise instruments now available in the remotest parts of the world and ascending the stars and the moon…”

“I’m that wandering refugee who has built and lost his house in all parts of the world and, at the foot of Ararat, is now setting up his home that will stand erect forever…”

“I’m the Armenian of the Diaspora whose harrowing experience taught him the mystery of surviving and abiding Armenian; who is the refugee of today but tomorrow --- the citizen of new Armenia…”

“I’m that scientist who is harnessing the electron, squeezing light from the atom and extracting fine silk threads from the coarse Armenian stones…”
“I’m that young, dashing poet who has committed to paper his first verses dedicated to Armenia…”
“I’m that pupil who has now come into possession, across the gulf of sixteen centuries, of the letters shaped by Mesrop Mashtots…”

“I’m the child that has just come into the world in one of the maternity homes of Yerevan; who, unaware as yet of what has been acquired before him, is now the successor and inheritor of the that wealth…”

Such will be the utterance of the deep yet inspirited voice, which will in turn enthuse everyone; and emboldened by its words, the orchestra will sound growingly resonant…

And when all ask him with one accord

“BUT WHO ARE YOU, TRAVELER, IN THE LONG RUN?”

He will say, now in a voice fortified by the martyrdom of forty centuries,
“I am Armenia; I am the Armenian people that, having persisted for countless ages in solitude in the midst of wolves, now lives in the harmonious family of fraternal peoples.”

“I am the traveler to eternity who, having arrived from the depth of centuries, is heading for the centuries to come, whose onward march will know no end as long as even a single Armenian lives on this globe, under this eternal sun…”

#2 ED

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Posted 17 January 2004 - 04:29 PM

A poet's real biography is the biography of his inner self, the history of his spiritual life, inseparable from the life and history of his people.

Over and above remain the less interesting items of his "factual" biography, wherein he is indistinguishable from others: his birth, studies, work, love, joys and sorrows, inspirations and disappointments...

I was born in 1919 in the Armenian village of Ashtarak, in the family of a schoolteacher and gardener.

Ashtarak, a big village in the heart of Armenia, abounds in vineyards, ancient temples and monuments. It dates back to the time of the state of Urartu, deriving its name from the Urartan god Ishtar.

Ashtarakians, born horticulturists and vine-growers, can equally well make and enjoy good wine. That is why they are so merry, so witty, and, of course, so prone to fall in love, be it with woman, wine, song or an apt word. Over the ages, they consumed so much wine that today it accounts for a lion's share of the blood in every Ashtarakian (including, of course, myself). In consequence, from their very birth, Ashtarakians .are permanently intoxicated, inspired and in love. And all, therefore, have a bit of the poet in them.

Not accidentally, Ashtarak was for centuries a cradle of national culture and letters, having produced and still producing numerous eminent people : writers, poets, linguists, scholars, cosmologists and even church primates. Also, each Ashtarakian keeps a cherished notebook of his own poetry (usually a rhymed history of Armenia some 6,000 lines long !).

Whatever I may have learned in my few years at Ashtarak school, one thing I know for certain: all that is best in me, which later found rellection in my books, was picked up in childhood, playing in dusty Ashtarak streets, in its gardens, by the river Kasakh, near the churches of Karmravor and Marineh, the mountains Aragats and Tsakhkevank, acquired from the naive yet pithy tales of old men and the songs of brides and young goodwives.

In 1927 our family moved to Yerevan, where in 1936 I finished secondary school, and in 1940 graduated from the local Polytechnical Institute, as an hydraulic engineer.

If today I do not build bridges or canals, but write books, I owe it largely to my good luck having met at school one of the most brilliant contemporary Armenian poets - Egishe Charents.

And, also, I am indebted to that great depository of ancient Armenian manuscripts, the Matenadaran, where I worked as a student, obtaining the precious opportunity to read our sacred books, relishing the taste and flavour of my people's age-old literature, pondering over its meaning and essence.

Be it as it may, I am also grateful to fate for my engineer's qualification: nothing like the exact sciences can help an author to develop a sense of structural harmony, to avoid verbosity and dispense with the luxury of taking ten steps where one is sufficient.

Later, I went to one of the regions of Armenia to build an hydro-electric power station, then served in the army, fell in love, wrote and published poetry and prose, lived and studied in Moscow, travelled extensively in Armenia, over the entire Soviet Union and abroad (Korea, France, America), witnessing how human joys and sorrows are the same everywhere, and how important poetry is in the life of mankind.

.
.
. All in all, I have ten books of my own, three sons and my little Armenia, which, however, is vast ' in its aspirations, in its love for all other peoples of the world.

#3 Teutonic Knight

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Posted 18 January 2004 - 04:05 PM

Gevork Emin is one of my favorite poets in the world.

~~~

I'm An Armenian

I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat;
My shoes were wetted by the waters of the Flood.
Beside these shining peaks where Noah sat
My sword once drew the dread Bel's* evil blood.
These boulders overgrown with moss since time
Beyond remembrance, my hand hewed to lie
In the foundation of an ancient shrine
Which my own blood I shed to sanctify.
One morning here, in Ararat's green valley
My hammer and my pick aside I flung
And lit a fire on the Chaldean altar.
Those days both Ararat and I were young.
Then crimson every valley-flower was dyed;
All we had sown in it through ages past
Grew on the blood of countrymen who died.
Beneath each hillock killed Armenians rest.
With trusty shield I met attacking hordes,
Suffering countless wounds from countless swords.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
High as the hills I bear my head. My story's sad:
Each century that passed brought grief to me.
My sons throughout the whole wide world were scattered;
With bloody showers Ararat was spattered.
My ploughlands crops of misery would yield.
I lived and breathed among my burned-out fields
On wasteland rubble, ashes steeped in gore.
But now, with my own blood revived once more,
Again the holy altar-lights burn bright,
Warming my heart and gladdening my sight.
New ploughshares out of rusted swords I forged;
Our fathers' heritage to my children I gave back.
Our sorrow fills my verse with hot blood gorged.
A twentieth century Gregory Narek**
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
Beneath my sorrows Ararat itself would bow.
Any ill-omened, blood-thirsty Attila that
Arose in history, would deal me his first blow.
Inured to massacres, I lived in thrall for ages.
An orphan, in the fight for life I'm steeled.
My thousand-year-old grain, preserved by hearts courageous,
Sown in new times, sprouts in my virgin fields.
Blessed be my roots, whose strength is marvelled at!
A homeless outcast once, a motherland have I.
I'm an Armenian, as old as Ararat.
I hold my head as high as eagles fly.

* Bel villain who opposed Ike, legendary ancestor of all Armenians.
** Narek (Narekatsi), Grigor (951-1003)-great Armenian poet of Early Renaissance.

#4 ED

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Posted 18 January 2004 - 06:37 PM

TN you don’t happen to have an access to Emins SASUNTSINERI PAR@ do you?. If yes please post it here for everyone to read it. Thanks

#5 Teutonic Knight

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Posted 18 January 2004 - 10:07 PM

Here it is, written in Western Armenian so it's kind of hard to read:



I will scan the poem translated in English via OCR tomorrow and the normal Armenian version also.

Edited by Teutonic Knight, 18 January 2004 - 10:09 PM.


#6 ED

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Posted 18 January 2004 - 10:22 PM

abris lao shnorakalem

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#7 MosJan

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Posted 14 November 2004 - 04:32 AM

GEVORG EMIN's letter addressed to the Department of Writters Union.

The letter has been written on 15th of February in 1953


edit; Post was moved from humor section

Edited by Edward, 14 November 2004 - 10:38 AM.





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