DIPTYCH

Viken L. Attarian
Original in Eastern Armenian, translated by the author

A Poem dedicated to the Tumo dream

***

They tell us
That we cannot …

They tell us
that we cannot
Become a people.
Only a tribe
That is dispersed.

They tell us
That ancient songs
will no longer ring
In the halls at the centre
Of the vortex of our new days.

They tell us
That we have forgotten to be

They tell us
That we simply have
never been.
That our Noah’s mountain
Is not ours.
That we have lived
But we have lost,
And that we’ll lose
Even our soul.

They tell us
That our dreams of illumination
Have ended long time ago
In our manuscripts.

That they were burnt
In a thousand furnaces
Of the ancient world.

That we have buried
All the heroes of the myth
of our history.

That the Dragon-Rock will
No longer speak.
That the rock-carver’s wedge
Will no longer clank,

And no one will feel
The breath of the words that
brought
Us closer to God
in our places of worship.

They tell us that we have sold
Long ago
Our land, our rights
Our humanity even.

That we shall no longer
Offer prayers
On the shores of our
Mountain lakes.

They tell us:
“You have not been,
And you shall not be”.

***

I say,
That in all the skies
of this world
It is my sun
That gives life to all.

And I am the offspring
Who walks on the path
of that will come.

That my heart
Will not be holding
Grudges against fellow humans,
Instead,
It will be an ever-perfumed
Novel of dreams.

I, the daughter of Armenia’s Poet,
And In the woods
bearing his name,

Behold, as I enter
This temple of the mind,
Behold, as I become the
Genius builder …

I, a ten-year old
Armenian girl

I, a black-eyed youth.

I sculpt My dreams

I march with speed,

And it is in my flight
That I construct.

I rise

And bring up others with me,
By always becoming.

They tell us
That we shall
Never be.

Yet I,
I keep becoming every day,
My dreams will come to be
As well.

My sun is a compass,
And I, a Polaris for mankind,

To all the new generations
Of all peoples
I gift them hope.

From my bloody mountains
I grant rebirth
To every soul.


I, a poet, a word creator,

That is, the one
Who created the God-Word Himself,

I recreate humans anew

It is today that I build a tomorrow.

***
I, an Armenian woman

I, a youth

I, an unknown yet who is
Just miraculous.

OF MEN AND MOUNTAINS

dedicated to the memories of all who fell for their fellow humans



My name is Martin Luther King,

I have been to the mountain top

And I have seen the promised land.

Whereto I march and fall

For all men to be free.



My name is Tenzin Gyatso,

I am from the land of Djomolungma,

Where I walked across the mountain tops.

They call me Ocean of Wisdom

I am but a man who has inside

All those who came, marched and fell before me.



My name is Salvador Allende,

My place is in the top of the Andes,

Where I marched and fell

To build a just place.

So that miners would no longer

Be buried alive.



My name is Hrant Dink

My ancestors came down from the top of

The Holy Mountain

To repopulate this earth.

They fell in millions for human redemption

I too with them, to be resurrected

In the cry of "Hepimiz Hrant Dink".



I have no name but I am Massri,

I am black and white.

We have no mountains,

So we built our own,

Five millennia ago to stare down the ages,



My place is a continent where man became man.

My place is a place where civilization began.



It is here that rises the mountain of spirit

For the world to see,



It is here that men, women and children

Declare that they'll always be free.



It all started here



In a place called Tahreer.