• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Armenian

sissyboy pale

16 Thursday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Armenian translation, bad girl, bisexual porn, erotic poetry, na vat aghjik e, sissy soul, sissyboy pale, sonnet, stone butch blues

After your parents kicked you out, you hid
all month long in my dorm room. “Feminine

wiles ain’t me th’n.” Yis. After your dad forbid
you from seeing her all that we called fun

came down to cashed bowls, beer cans and bi porn.
“Na vat aghjik e,” your dad said. “She’s bad.”

Some nights we got to smuggle your lovelorn
girlfriend in. — It’s hard to have a triad

with just two. In the shower: her toffee,
your bronze, my sissyboy pale. Nothing lasts,

though: just footnotes. Sister? Lover? Other?
What were we? Best friends. That’s enough for me.

Twenty-eight days. Lilith, guide to outcasts,
at long last, did your daughters find shelter?

][][

NOTE:
There is a special ring in hell for abusive parents who cast out their queer children. Know the words that will get used against you so that they have no power. In Armenian, “she’s a bad girl,” gets translated into, “na vat aghjik e” (նա վատ աղջիկ է), as in: “bad girls are more fun/ vat aghjiknery aveli zvarchali yen” (վատ աղջիկները ավելի զվարճալի են). My broken broken vocabulary.

drubbing

14 Tuesday May 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Armenian translation, dirty mind, erotic poetry, keghtot mitk’y, Love shall make us a threesome, sonnet, tribadic drubbing, violent priapism

No. You loathed his want instead. His drab wants:
dull and ulcerous. Cankered cock outside.

Cankerous soul in. — In the restaurant’s
restroom, in stall five, she ground down astride

your face ‘tween tribadic drubbing, violent
priapism, the long slow insertion —

“I’ll frig ‘er,” she said, slapping your splayed cunt.
“Put yer randiness ‘ere. Soon yer semen

an’ mah spit shaa slosh frae deep in ‘er arse.”
Blessed be all dirty minds, “keghtot mitk’y.”

Blessed be all grandmothers, daughters and wives
who find love once marriage becomes a farce,

once their menfolk bloat with hate and vodka.
Blessed be all love that still somehow survives.

NOTE:
A dirty mind, as Prince would say, is, “keghtot mitk’y” (կեղտոտ միտքը), in Armenian; as in, “dirty minded friends are so attractive,” “keghtot sirvats ynkernery aynk’an gravich’ yen” (կեղտոտ սիրված ընկերները այնքան գրավիչ են) … because we are and so are you.

amenamair

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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all-lover, all-mother, all-other, Amenamair, crossroads, Lilith, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Far more nervous for nightfall than I’ve been
for a while. Gloaming, some call it. The time

when paths open. — If I could leave my skin,
walk soft there, I would. I can’t. That sublime

skill is beyond me. The most that I do
is wait down by the crossroads for her guide.

Amenamair: a name the ancients knew.
The All-Mother. In last night’s dusk I spied

in the willow where her queer owl singsonged.
I have never been this close to an owl

before or had such a song burn in me:
“Amenamair. I have longed. I have longed.”

I long to leave my skin. I long to prowl.
I long to be your song in that dark tree.

Note:
Just as Odin, in Norse lore, is called the All-Father, one of the many names of Lilith, in Armenian (the ancient language that I keep going back to), is Amenamair (Ամենամայր), the All-Mother.

garcia lorca’s sorpresa [por michael brown]

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Federico Garcia Lorca, Ferguson, Michael Brown, Missouri, poem, Poetry, Sorpresa

… because even as I work on this translation another person has been shot by police in Ferguson, MO.  As Garcia Lorca said about an apathetic country when its children are murdered by their own police, “Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.” I suppose this is the point where I say something cliché like, “I pray for peace,” when in reality the only way there will be peace is when those who have been hiding behind their “to serve and protect” badges are held accountable.

][

SORPRESA

— by Federico Garcia Lorca

Muerto se quedó en la calle con un puñal en el pecho.

No lo conocía nadie.

¡Cómo temblaba el farol!

¡Madre, cómo temblaba el farolito de la calle!

Era madrugada.

Nadie pudo asomarse a sus ojos abiertos al duro aire.

Que muerto se quedó en la calle que con un puñal en el pecho y que no lo conocía nadie.

][

[in English]

SURPRISE

Dead they left him in the street with a knife in his chest.

No one knew who he was.

How the lamppost trembled!

Mother! How the little lantern trembled!

It was early morning.

Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.

And he was dead in the street with a knife in his chest, and no one knew who he was.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

ANAKNKAL

Merrats e, vor lk’yel e nran p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki.

Voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e na:

Vor lapterasyun vakhets’av!

Mayry! P’vok’r lamperi vakhets’av!

Da vagh arravotyan:

Voch’ vok’ ch’i karogh nayel nra ach’k’yeri mej ch’ap’azants’ ach’k’i ynknogh mej tsanr od:

Yev na merrats p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki, yev voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e ink’y:

][

[in Armenian]

ԱՆԱԿՆԿԱԼ

Մեռած է, որ լքել է նրան փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի.

Ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է նա:

Որ լապտերասյուն վախեցավ!

Մայրը! Փոքր լամպերի վախեցավ!

Դա վաղ առավոտյան:

Ոչ ոք չի կարող նայել նրա աչքերի մեջ չափազանց աչքի ընկնող մեջ ծանր օդ:

Եւ նա մեռած փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի, եւ ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է ինքը:

salome: page 01

09 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Armenian, Illustration and art, Translation

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Armenian translation, art, English translation, Oscar Wilde, page 1, Salome, Vahan Terian

Jan 09, 2014 (2)

Jan 09, 2014 (3)

SALOMÉ
SALOME
ՍԱԼՈՄԵ

1893

PERSONNES
PERSONS
ԱՆՁԵՐ

HÉRODE ANTIPAS, Tétrarque de Judée
HEROD ANTIPAS, Tetrarch of Judea
ՀԵՐՈՎԴ ԱՆՏԻՊԱ, տետրարք Հրեաստանի

IOKANAAN, le prophète
IOKANAAN, the prophet
ՅՈՔԱՆԱԱՄ, մարգարեն

LE JEUNE SYRIEN, capitaine de la garde
THE YOUNG SYRIAN, captain of the guard
ԵՐԻՏԱՍԱՐԴ ՍԻՐԻԱՅԻ, դահճապետի [1]

TIGELLIN, un jeune Romain
TIGELLINUS, a young roman
ՏԻԳԵԼԻՆ, երիտասարդ Հռոմայեցի

CAPPADOCIEN
CAPPODOCIAN
ԿԱՊԱԴՈՎԿԻԱՅԻ

NUBIEN
NUBIAN
ՆՈԻԲԻԱՅԻ

PREMIER SOLDAT
FIRST SOLDIER
ԱՌԱՋԻՆ ՋԻՆՎՈՐ

SECOND SOLDAT
SECOND SOLDIER
ԵՐԿՐՈՐԴ ՋԻՆՎՈՐ

LE PAGE D’HÉRODIAS
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
ՀԵՐՈՎԴԻԱԴԱՅԻ ՄԱՆԿԼԱՎԻԿԸ

JUIFS, NAZARÉENS, etc.
JEWS, NAZARENES, etc.
ՀՐԵԱՆԱՆԵՐ, ՆԱՋՈՎՐԵՅԻՆԵՐ, եւ այլն.

ESCLAVE
SLAVE
ՍՏՐՈԻԿ

NAAMAN, bourreau
NAMAAN, executioner
ՆԱԱՄԱՆ, դահիճ

HÉRODIAS, femme du Tétrarque
HERODIAS, wife of the tetrarch
ՀԵՐՈՎԴԻԱԴԱ, տետրարքի կինը

SALOMÉ, fille d’Hérodias
SALOME, daughter of Herodias
ՍԱԼՈՄԵ, աղջիկը Հերովդիայի

ESCLAVES DE SALOMÉ
SLAVES OF SALOME
ՍԱԼՈՄԵԻ ՍՏՐԿՈԻՀԻՆԵՐԸ

][][

SCÈNE
SCENE
ԲԵՄ’

[Une grande terrasse dans le palais d’Hérode donnant sur la salle de festin. Des soldats sont accoudés sur le balcon. A droite il y a un énorme escalier. A gauche, au fond, une ancienne citerne entourée d’un mur de bronze vert. Clair de lune.]

[A large terrace in Herod’s palace overlooking the banqueting hall. Some of the soldiers are leaning against the balcony. To the right there is a huge staircase. To the left, at bottom, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. Moonlight.]

[Մի մեծ կտուր է Հերովդեսի պալատը նայող խնջույքի դահլիճը. Որոշ զինվորներ են հենվում է պատշգամբում. Դեպի աջ կա մի մեծ աստիճաններ. Դեպի ձախ, ժամը ներքեւում, հին ցիստեռնը շրջապատված է պատին կանաչ բրոնզե. Լուսնյակ.] [2]

LE JEUNE SYRIEN: Comme la princesse Salomé est belle ce soir!
THE YOUNG SYRIAN: How beautiful the Princess Salome looks tonight!
ԵՐԻՏԱՍԱՐԴ ՍԻՐԻԱՅԻ: Ինչ գեղեցիկ է Արքայադուստրը Սալոմե երեկո! [3]

LE PAGE D’HÉRODIAS: Regardez la lune. La lune a l’air très étrange. On dirait une femme qui sort d’un tombeau. Elle ressemble à une femme morte. On dirait qu’elle cherche des morts.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS: Look at the moon. The moon looks strange! She looks like a woman rising from a tomb. She looks like a dead woman. One might think she was looking for the dead.
ՀԵՐՈՎԴԻԱԴԱՅԻ ՄԱՆԿԼԱՎԻԿԸ: Նայիր լուսնի. Լուսինը ունի տարօրինակ տեսք. Կարծես մի կին աճող մի շիրիմին. Կարծես մահացած կնոջ.Կարելի է մտածել որ նա փնտրում է մահացած. [4]

LE JEUNE SYRIEN: Elle a l’air très étrange. Elle ressemble à une petite princesse qui porte un voile jaune, et a des pieds d’argent. Elle ressemble à une princesse qui a des pieds comme des petites colombes blanches … on dirait qu’elle danse.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN: She has a strange look. She looks like a little princess who wears a yellow veil, whose feet are made of silver. She looks like a princess who has feet like little white doves … she looks like she is dancing.
ԵՐԻՏԱՍԱՐԴ ՍԻՐԻԱՅԻ: Այն նայում շատ տարօրինակ է. Կարծես մի փոքր Արքայադուստրը ով հագնում է դեղին վարագույրի, եւ որոնց ոտքերը են արծաթի. : Նա, կարծես արքայադուստր ով ունի ոտքերը նման փոքր սպիտակ աղավնիներ … կարծես նա պար. [5]

][][

notes:

Most of the footnotes here will be from my attempts at transcribing Vahan Terian’s original. I’ll state for the record here: there will be errors. I am neither a native speaker of Armenian nor particularly good at any language. But I follow the advice of the poet and translator Marilyn Hacker who said, “it is better to have a bad translation than no translation at all.” Cheers.

[1] Թիկնապահների Հրամանատար [VT]

[2] Հանդիսասըահին կից մեծ պատհգամը: Հռըովդի պալատում: Ջինվոըները կանգնել են պատհգամբի վանդակապատին Հռնված: Աջ կողմը’ մեծ սանդուղք: Ջախ կողմը, ըէմի խորքում’ մի ջըհոը: [VT]

[3] Որքան հքնա’ղ է այս երեկո արքայադուստր Սալոմեն: [VT]

[4] Նայեցեք լուսնիմ: Որքան տարօրինակ տեսք ունի լուսնյակը: Կարծես մի կին ե, որ գերեզմանից է ելնում: Սեռած կնոջ է նման: Կարծես մեռել է որոնում նա: [VT]

[5] Շատ տարօրինակ տեսք ունի: Նա նման է մի փոքրիկ արքայադստեր, որ դեղին քող է ծածկում [and] որի ոտներն արծաթից են: Կարծես նա մի արքայաղուստր է, որի ոտները սպիտակ աղավնյակների են նման: Կարծես նա պարում է: [VT]

salome: an introduction

09 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Armenian, Illustration and art, Translation

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Armenian translation, drama, English translation, introduction, Oscar Wilde, Salome, Vahan Terian

Jan 09, 2014 (1)

Here’s a little unknown story.

In the summer of 1997, after I came back from my psycho-vac, I ended up teaching conversational English to a classroom of Armenian students in Yerevan.

In theory it should have been an easy job … one just talks and play word-games and get people to enjoy trying something as scary and illogical as English (seriously, who in hell came up with p-q and b-d as letters that won’t get constantly reversed or turned upside down in non-English speakers minds?) Anyway, I took the hard road and decided the best way to have fun in this class was to get them to perform a play … and, you say, after reading the title of the Oscar Wilde drama up above, what better way to approach Amateur Drama 101 than with something that hasn’t been updated into modern speak since it was first translated from French in 1900? Because trying to explain “thee” and “thy” to a classroom who were just hoping to be able to say hello to their cousin Aram in Glendale might not have been the smartest move on my part, though one of my students did say she had heard someone, at some point in time, had translated the play Salome (1893) into Armenian, but she had no idea who or when.

Jump forward in time to yesterday, around 10-ish in the morning while I was at work. The Internets is fabulous, for I discovered who it was who first translated the play. Not everyone is familiar with the name Vahan Terian (Վահան Տերյան), which is a shame since his original poetry is both sad and beautiful (though not necessarily in that order), but, in 1910, he translated the French original into Armenian. And not only is the Internets fabulous but someone sainted soul actually uploaded the original translation … sadly in PDF format, but still! The whole play! translated! online! hurrah for exclamation points!

Here is the mission I’ve given myself. I want to simultaneously translate the original French into an updated English version plus translate it into modern Armenian while transcribing Terian’s original. This won’t be easy for numerous reasons. First, I’m terrible at transcribing. My ability to read Armenian is limited, but the uploaded PDF file seems to be the only version I can find online, unless someone can clue me in to where to look. Also, my ability to translate Armenian is comically absurd. There are children laughing at my attempts in Gyumri right now and I haven’t even started. Perhaps, one day, someone will read this and think helping me is a good idea, but there aren’t a lot of native Armenians in the world, even less so on-line, so I never take radio silence personally.

What I am going to present here are three versions of the play. The first is the original, taken from Project Gutenberg. The second is my attempt at an English translation and the third will be the Armenian. I’ll add notes from the Terian transcription as I go along, though I haven’t figured how exactly (I’m making this up as I go along). There are about 30 pages to the original play, depending on the font, so I’m thinking of publishing a page at a time, just to avoid confusion (mine). Of course, as always, if anyone reads this and wants to help, correct and ridicule, any assistance will only make the translations better.

With that said, the game, Mrs Hudson, is on!

before the storm

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation

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Armenian translation, clitoris, cunnilingus, ծլիկ, poem, Poetry, the problem with so-called dirty words, tslik

Before the thunderstorm arrives
Ampropits’ arraj galis
Ամպրոպից առաջ գալիս

Rub your tongue across her swollen clitoris
K’sum dzer lezun amboghj ir tslik urrats
Քսում ձեր լեզուն ամբողջ իր ծլիկ ուռած

Watch as she begins to arch her spine
Ditel yen k’ani vor na sksum e shrjadardz ir voghnashari
Դիտել են քանի որ նա սկսում է շրջադարձ իր ողնաշարի

and her thighs begin to tremble
yev nra azdreri sksum yen doghal
եւ նրա ազդրերի սկսում են դողալ

Inhale the rain in the air
Nershnch’yel e andzrev odum
Ներշնչել է անձրեւ օդում

][][

notes:

The best way to determine if a foreign language dictionary is of any use is to see if it has the word “clitoris” in it, a standard medical term. If it doesn’t then there is a good chance there will be a whole mess of other words it won’t have either. If language is simply a tool that allows us to communicate then there is no such thing as a “dirty” word, there are only uptight people who fear the truth behind words. One day someone needs to make an erotic Armenian dictionary. The nearest I could find in Armenian for clitoris is “tslik” (ծլիկ ), though I am sure there are other words, too, that I just can’t find.

nane and the khach

12 Tuesday Nov 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Prose, Translation

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Armenian fairy tale, Khach, Nane Abandian, prose, story

THERE WAS AND THERE WAS NOT a young woman once who lived in Artik [*]. She was strong and lively, the daughter of a rich farmer who had suddenly died. As a result her widowed mother had plenty of money, so the old woman did not spare anything on her daughter. Accordingly, when the girl grew up she liked the “sporting life,” as they called the bourgeois in the far-off city of Alexandropol [*], better than honest, hard work. Since her mother had no other children she allowed the girl to do anything that she pleased. She was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a carnival, or a dance, or a gathering of rowdy rough boys within ten miles of Artik then Nane Abandian could be found there with her shaved head and great 10-league boots. There have always been girls like this, those who seldom spend a night in their mother’s house, who love to be out rambling; in this Nane was no different, she took after the riotous Margaret of Soissons, who even today still scandalizes the old storytellers with her vulgar and smutty tales.

Of course this is what fuels gossip and soon it was said that it was many the scandalous kiss that Nane got and gave, for there was a certain oddity to her beauty that turned the heads of many a stammering boy and befuddled man, all up and down the countryside. It was for that reason that some rustic poet came up with a ditty about her—

Nane! She is a libertine / She wears men’s clothing / She knows how to kiss / She knows how to use a sword / She’s very shameful / This must be love —-

Nane! Na azatamit mard / Na hagnum arakan hagust / Na giti, t’ye inch’pes kareli e hamburel / Na giti, t’ye inch’pes kareli e ogtagortsel suser / Na shat amot’ali / Sa petk’ e lini ser —-

Նանէ! Նա ազատամիտ մարդ / Նա հագնում արական հագուստ / Նա գիտի, թե ինչպես կարելի է համբուրվել / Նա գիտի, թե ինչպես կարելի է օգտագործել սուրը / Նա շատ ամոթալի / Սա պետք է լինի սեր —-

Temperance has never been found in a bottle or where free reign is taken and as time went on Nane became more and more wild and unruly. She wasn’t to be seen day or night at her mother’s house, but always rambling or going out on her night adventures, “gisher arkatsayin,” [*] from bed to bed, from one drunken debauchery to another. Still, her mother never said one word about her “disgraceful habits,” as the old toothless people down in the village market square would say; she never punished Nane until it happened that one day the old woman was told that her daughter had broken the heart of Jhirayr, the little consumptive child who lived down the lane, with his sickly legs and full red lips and girlish dark locks and large, faun-like eyes, it was common knowledge in the neighborhood that the child had pined after the much-older Nane, with her hidden curves and saucy attitude, from his sick-bed window for many an endless night and, the neighbors reasoned, was not consumption proof of a broken heart? What was cholera, tuberculosis and typhus but the melancholia that the poets were always writing about? If the great poet Sayat Nova [*] declared it was so, then so it must be.

Nane’s mother finally grew angry. Unchecked venereal disease was one thing, but this? Many a maid went to her wedding bed with the clap, but who would find a heart-breaker remotely suitable? She called her daughter to her side, saying to her, quietly and reasonably: “Aghjik [*], you know that I have loved you up to this moment. You know that I’ve never stopped you from doing any fool thing, whatever moved you. I’ve kept plenty of money saved away for you, for I know one day you will settle down and be chaste and pious and I’ve always hoped to leave you the house and lands of my late, departed husband.”

“Um, do you mean father?”

“Hush. I said I would have given all that I had, as in past tense, but I heard a story of you today that has disgusted me with your thoughtless behavior. Fie and shame, girl, breaking poor Jhirayr-jan’s heart and giving him consumption! I cannot tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a tale that has been told about you. I tell you now plainly that unless you marry that the boy to set things right I’ll leave house and land and everything to my sister’s daughter.”

“But I don’t want to marry an eight year-old, I —- wait! Sister? I was unaware that you had a sister or I an aunt.”

“Hush. We rarely talk but I could never leave my wealth to anyone who would make such bad use of it as you yourself have done and will do, causing little boys to cough up blood!”

“I don’t really think I am to blame for that.”

“Hush! Settle with your soul now whether you’ll sober-up, marry that poor weak-chinned lad and get my land as a fortune,” the old woman rose and strode to the door. “Or refuse to marry Jhirayr-jan and give up all that should be rightfully coming to you.”

“Voch’inch [*]! Mother-jan, you shouldn’t say that to me, you talk as if I’m already dead!”

But her mother passed through the door and was gone. Nane ran a bewildered hand across her shaven head. She knew with a sinking heart that her mother would keep her word. The young woman was greatly troubled, for as quiet and as kind as her mother was, she never went back on a promise. There wasn’t another woman in all the village of Artik who was harder to argue with than her mother.

“I do not understand this. If the boy had been poxed with crinkums, or somehow got the Turkish disease, then I am sure I would be to blamed as well. As it is, mother is being most unfair!”

Nane did not know just what to do. She pulled on her ox-hide jacket and walked out into the night to cool her over-heated brain, finding herself, at long last, on a road leading out of the village. The night was bright, the moon full. Lost deep in thought she walked until finally the freedom of motion began to make her forget her troubles. There was not a breath of mountain wind, the air was bewitching and calm. She walked on in the vast dark for nearly an hour, meeting no one on the road, when, suddenly, she realized that she did not know where she was. ““Voch’inch! I think I’ve gotten myself lost,” she murmured.

The murmur was hardly out of her mouth when she heard the queer sound of many female voices singing, as if from a far distance away. Then she could just make out the tramp of light feet upon the road before her. “I don’t know who could be out so late at night and in such a jolly mood,” said she to herself.

Nane stood listening, hardly breathing. The songs were all flowing over one and another but she could not understand the words. “That’s odd,” she said. “It’s not Armenian or Turkish that they are using; it can’t be that they’re Kurds, not out here.” She took a couple of steps further. She could see well enough by the light of the moon. Before her was a band of little figures heading down the road toward her. They carried something awkward and heavy between them; a sack of wheat, Nane thought. Then she felt the skin on her scalp crawl as when one is in the presence of a fell beast, for she saw that the mob was hurrying, pell-mell, toward her in great haste.

Nane looked at them again, amazed, seeing that there were about twenty naked, diminutive women —- women? children? not one was higher than three feet tall —- some appeared young, some a weird blue hue, some as ancient as the mountains. Her people called them the brave ones, since it was never prudent to anger spirits that could bewitch, bother or bewilder you. She looked again, but she could not make out what the heavy thing that they were carrying was until they came up to her, then they threw the it down in the middle of the road and Nane saw that it was a body.

It was a dead body. Very dead.

Nane stood where she was, staring aghast at what lay before her when a little blue Khach [*] came up to her, saying, like wind in the leaves, “isn’t it lucky that we met you, Nane Abandian?”

Poor Nane could not utter a single word, nor open her lips.

“Nane Abandian,” repeated the mountain faerie, once more, “isn’t it lucky that you met us?”

Nane could not answer her.

“Nane Abandian,” she said, “the third time makes the charm, isn’t it lucky that we met you?”

But Nane remained silent, for she was afraid to return an answer, least the Khach used her own words against her in some dark act.

The blue woman turned to her companions, there was delight in her bright little eyes. “Now,” she said, “Nane Abandian hasn’t spoken a word to us so we can do with her what we please. Nane, Nane,” she said, “you’re living a shameful life, causing little boys to cough up blood! We can make a pack-mule of you, for there’s no use in trying to fight against us. I order you, lift up that corpse.”

Nane was so frightened that she was only able to squeak out the word, ““voch’inch,” for she could think of no other word to say.

“Nane Abandian won’t lift up the corpse,” said the little Khach, with a wicked laugh, sounding, for all the world, like the peal of a cracked bell. “Nane Abandian won’t lift up the corpse —- but we shall make her lift it!”

Before the words were out of her mouth they had all gathered around the girl, talking and laughing.

Nane tried to run from them, but they tripped her up so that she was thrown in a heap upon the road. Then, before she could rise, the Khaches caught her —- some by her hands, some by her hair, some by her legs —- and held her tight so that she could not move. Six or seven of them raised up the corpse, a horrid thing with swamp-drudged hair, dragged it over to her, then lowered the nightmare down upon the poor girl. The breasts of the corpse were squeezed tight against Nane’s back and shoulders, the arms of the corpse thrown around Nane’s neck. Then they stood back from her, allowing the young woman to stand up. She rose unsteadily, shaking as if to throw the corpse off her back. But her fear and her wonder were terrible when she found that the two arms had a tight hold round her neck, that the two legs were squeezing her hips firmly, that, however powerfully she tried, she could not throw the thing off her.

The little blue woman came up to her again, saying, “Now, libertine, you didn’t lift the corpse when I told you to lift it, so we made you to lift it up. Perhaps when I tell you to bury it you’ll won’t want to to be buried along side it?”

Nane’s brain raced. She knew there was a way out of this —- hadn’t she been raised on stories of the odd jinn-like Dev and crocodilian Torx and thunder-snakes called Veeshab? But fright and confusion clouded her memory —- she hung her head. The little woman laughed again. “You’re becoming quite obedient, girl,” she said. “Listen to me now, Nane Abandian. If you don’t obey me in all I’m telling you you’ll regret it. You must carry this corpse to Lmb’atavank [*], the Church of Saint Stephen. You must carry it into the churchyard itself, then make a grave for it in the very middle of the floor. You must raise up the stones and put them down again in the exact same way. You must leave the place precisely as it was when you first entered so that no one can know that anything has happened. But that’s not all. Maybe you will dig down and find someone else has already been buried in that spot. The dead do not let strangers sleep in their beds. If that is the case you must leave Lmb’atavank with the corpse still on your back. You must carry it on to Pemzashen [*], bury it in the churchyard there; and if you don’t lay it to rest in that place then take it with you to Yerazgavors [*], where King Smbat was once crowned; and if that churchyard is full, then take it to Karachanta [*]; and if you’re not able to bury it there you can bury it at Bashgyugh [*] without problem. If you do this work justly, quickly, with a good heart, we will be thankful to you; but if you are disrespectful and lazy, then believe me this shall be your last night upon the earth, regardless if you have made a promise to a sickly boy half your age.”

“But I —-”

“Hush! Can’t you hear that we’re singing your song? Listen.”

When the blue little woman had done speaking, the other naked fairies laughed and clapped their hands together, beginning to sing words suddenly Nane understood:

Come, sit down side by side, corpse bride / I’ll take you home to be my wife —-

Ari nstenk’ tsalaptik, diaky harsnats’u / k’yez vorpes hars tanem mer tun —-

Արի նստենք ծալապտիկ, դիակը հարսնացու / քեզ որպես հարս տանեմ մեր տուն —-

Then the Khaches drove poor Nane down the road, who was obliged to walk fast, for they gave her no moment to gather her wits. The night was at times extremely dark, so that whenever a cloud crossed the moon she could see nothing, causing her to stumble with the terrible burden on her back. Sometimes she hurt herself in her falls, but regardless, she was obliged always to rise and to hurry on. Sometimes she would look behind her and see the mountain faeries following. She heard them singing amongst themselves and knew that if she was to save herself that night she had to understand what they really wanted from her.

She did not know how far she had walked, when at last one of them cried out to her, “Stop, Nane Abandian, stop!” She stood, panting, while they all gathered round her.

“Do you see those trees over there?” asked one of the ancient Khaches this time. “Lmb’atavank is among those trees. You must go in there by yourself, for we cannot follow you. We must remain here. Go and do not be caught.”

Nane looked about herself. She saw a high, pink stone wall that was in places broken down. Beyond it lay an ancient stone church with its octagonal walls. Sighing, she was obliged to go forward. She was a couple of hundred yards from the church, but she walked on, never looking behind her until she came to the gate of the churchyard. She turned then to see if any of the brave ones were following her, but a cloud covered over the moon and the night became so dark that she could see nothing. She went into the churchyard, she walked up the old grassy pathway leading to the church proper. When she reached the door, she found it locked. The door was large and strong, she did not know what to do.

““Voch’inch,” she murmured to herself, “there is nothing more that I can do. The door is shut, I can’t open it.”

Before the words were out of her mouth a voice said in her ear, “search for the key on the top of the door, or perhaps along the wall.”

Nane started in fright. “Who is that?” she cried, turning around and around; but she saw no one. The voice said in her ear again, “Just what I said, search for the key on the top of the door, or perhaps along the wall.”

“Who the hell is that?” she cried, the sweat running from her forehead.

“Hello! It’s just the corpse on your back that spoke to you!” said the voice.

“Fracking hell!” Nane cried, feeling the dead arms tighten around her neck. “Can you talk?”

“Now and again,” the dead woman said. “When the mood strikes.”

Nane searched for the key, finding it finally on the top of the wall. She was too much frightened to say anything more. She opened the door wide, as quickly as she could, and the two went in with the corpse clinging to her back. It was as dark as fiddler’s rosin inside. Standing in the dark with such a monstrosity on her back, poor Nane began to shake and tremble.

“Relax, warm child. Light the candle,” the corpse bride said.

Nane put her hand in her pocket, as well as she could, then drew out a small box of matches. She struck one, lit a burnt rag that she found upon the ancient stone-cut floor. She blew it until it made a flicker of flame, peering all around. The church was deserted, part of the outer wall had been broken down. There were long trays full of sand where the pilgrim could light prayer candles and in one of these Nane found the stump of an old candle, which she lit. She was still looking about herself when the cold corpse whispered in her ear, “Bury me now, warm child, bury me now.” Nane looked to where the bony arm pointed and saw a spade lying beside the altar. She took it up, placed the flat side of the blade under a flagstone, then leaned all her weight upon the handle. Slowly, slowly, the stone’s rough edge raised up. With the first stone raised like a broken tooth it was not hard to raise up the others. She labored and sweated. She coughed as grave dust billowed up from the sanctified ground. She moved three or four stones out of their places. The boggy clay ground that was under the stones was soft and easy to dig through, but she had not thrown up more than three or four shovelfuls when she felt the iron —- the one thing that the mountain faeries cannot touch —- broke through something soft like cloth and bone. With fingers digging through the wet dirt she saw that it was another body, a girl, perhaps, only fourteen, that was buried in the same place.

“I am afraid I’ll never be allowed to bury your body next to hers, little as she is,” Nane said. “Bride, there on my back,” she said, “will you be satisfied if I bury you with a maid who has never known pleasure, only the evil that men can do?” But the corpse bride never said a word. “That’s a good sign,” Nane said to herself. She tossed the wet clay she had dug up down once again, smoothing everything down. Then she laid down the flags carefully as they had been before. “No Christian will be able to tell the difference,” said she to herself, knowing she was right.

Nane left the church then, her heart was sad, but she shut the door and locked it, leaving the key where she found it. She sat down on a tombstone that was near the door, thinking hard. She didn’t know what to do. She buried her face between her hands, crying, since she was certain that she would never come home alive. She made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse bride that were squeezed round her neck, but they were as tight as ever and the more she tried to loosen them the tighter they squeezed. She was going curse loudly when the cold, horrid lips of the dead woman said to her, “Pemzashen,” and she remembered the command of the brave ones to bring the corpse bride with her to that other village if she should be unable to bury the dead.

She rose up, looked about her. “I don’t know the way,” she said.

As in response the dead woman stretched out her left hand that had been tightened round Nane’s neck, kept pointing, showing the girl the route she had to follow. Nane went in the direction that the fingers were stretched toward, striding out of the churchyard in her 10-league boots. That part of Armenia is a series of amazingly tall foothills and soon Nane found herself on an old rutty road, upon which she stood, not knowing which way to turn. The corpse bride stretched out its bony hand a second time, pointing out another road that wound around the hills as if leading her to a barrow wight’s grave. Nane followed the corpse bride’s directions for many hours. Whenever she came to a new road or goat path the rider on her back always stretched out its hand and pointed with its two fingers, showing Nane the way she should take.

After what felt like a long night of heavy walking Nane came upon the old burying ground of the village of Pemzashen; but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building to be found. the corpse bride squeezed Nane tightly. “Bury me, warm child, bury me in this holy ground,” said the dead woman.

Nane drew over towards the old burying place, her feet making slish-slish noises, so tired she was, but she was not more than about twenty yards from the consecrated ground, when, raising her eyes, she saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts —- women, men, children, victims of an Ottoman pogrom —- sitting on the top of the wall, or standing on the inside the burying place, or running backwards and forwards, pointing at her and that which she carried on her back, while she could see their horrible mouths opening and shutting as if they were singing, though she heard no words or tune or melody.

Nane was afraid to go forward, despite the threats of the Khaches, so she stood where she was, the corpse bride slowly tightening herself around her throat. At the moment she grew quite all the ghosts who surrounded them ceased moving as well. Then Nane understood that they were trying to keep her from entering the old burying place. She walked a couple of yards forwards, immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards her. The dead stood so thickly together that it seemed to Nane that she would never pass through. But she had no courage to try such a trick. She turned and staggered back, broken and dispirited. When she had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying ground she stopped once again, for she did not know what way she had to go. She heard the voice of the corpse bride in her ear, saying, “Yerazgavors,” and the skinny hand was stretched out once again, pointing her down a road that neither the living nor the dead could see.

As tired as she was, Nane had to walk on and on, the road being neither short nor even. The night appeared to be darker than before. At last she saw Yerazgavors in the far distance, one more pink-stone village, with the graveyard of the church off to one side. Here, though, she saw no ghosts nor anything else sitting upon the wall. Nane rejoiced, thinking that she would never be hindered from laying her burden at long last in the cold clay. She moved over to the church’s gate, but as she was passing through she tripped upon a stone in the threshold. Before she could recover herself invisible hands seized her by the neck, by her hands, by her legs, pinching and bruising her, lifting her up, throwing her more than a hundred yards from the gate, where she rolled and rolled head over toes, with the corpse bride still clinging to her neck.

Groggily Nane rose up, bruised and sore, but afraid to go a second time to the church, for she had seen nothing but something had thrown her down on the ground all the same.

“Corpse bride!” Nane said, “shall I try to enter the churchyard once more?” —- but the dead woman refused to answer her.

Nane was now in doubt as to what she ought to do next when the corpse bride spoke in her ear, saying, “Karachanta.”

“Skank!” Nane cried, uttering a fearsome curse, “must I be your jack-ass all the way across the countryside? If you keep me like this I’ll fall under you and then you’ll have to carry me.”

“You think?”

Sighing, Nane went in the direction the corpse bride pointed out. It felt like hours that she had been trudging when, with a gagging jerk, the dead woman suddenly squeezed Nane’s windpipe and whispered, “There!”

Nane looked and saw a little low wall made out of pink tufa stone that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. They crossed over into a great wide field —- save for only three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like boulders than stones, there was nothing to show that neither graveyard nor church had once stood there at all.

“Is this Karachanta? Shall I bury you here?” Nane said.

“Yes,” said the voice.

“But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones,” Nane said.

The corpse bride did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless finger to show Nane the direction in which she was to go. The girl went on accordingly, but she was terrified, for she remembered what had happened to her at the last place. When she came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall a flash of lightning —- bright yellow with blue streaks in it —- exploded about the wall until at last it became like a bright ring of flame surrounding the old graveyard. Round the flame went, blue sparks leaping out from it as it passed by, although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, getting broader and higher, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band. Nane was amazed; she was half dead with fatigue, she had no courage left to approach the flaming wall. She was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover herself. She could see nothing but the light, she could hear nothing but the churr of enchanted fire as it shot round the edges of the ancient stones.

As she sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in her ear, “Bashgyugh,” and the dead woman squeezed Nane so tightly that the girl cried out. She rose again, sick, tired, trembling, went forward as she was directed. The wind was cold, the road full of holes, the load upon her back was sickening. Nane herself was nearly worn out. At last the corpse bride stretched out its hand, said to her, “bury me there.”

““Voch’inch,” Nane mumbled and thought to herself, “and the little blue Khach woman said I’d be allowed to bury her in here if I couldn’t bury her anywhere else. Finally I can put my burden down.”

“Make haste, make haste!” the corpse bride said. The first, faint streak of day was appearing in the east, but where Nane stood it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, there were no stars in the sky.

Nane hurried forward as well as she could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. She walked boldly in through the open gate, finding nothing to block her path. She came to the middle of the ground and suddenly perceived what startled her greatly —- a newly-dug grave yawning open right before her. She moved over to the edge, looking down saw that there at the bottom lay a coffin. She clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, found it empty. She had hardly gotten the lid open when the corpse bride, which had clung to her for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of her neck, loosened its shins from round her hips, fell down into the open coffin.

Nane slowly pulled herself up through the mud and fell down on her two knees at the brink of the grave. She made no delay then, but threw in the freshly dug clay back over it with her two hands. When the grave was filled she smoothed the plot over with her feet and then she made her way out of the graveyard.

The sun was fast rising as she returned to the road and, looking for a public house to rest, found an inn at last. The proprietor was dubious about giving a room to a single woman, wandering the road and unchaperoned. But when he saw the grave dirt under Nane’s fingers, the bruises around her neck and the haunted, frightened look in her eyes —- looking for all the world as if she had just crawled out of ground from her own hanging —- the old man crossed himself and gave her a room. There Nane lay down upon the bed and slept until nighttime. Then she rose and ate a little, fell asleep again until day break. When she awoke in the morning she hired a horse and rode home. She was more than one-hundred and twenty-six miles from her mother’s house, how she had crossed such great distances with that dead body on her back in one night she had no idea.

All her neighbors back home thought that she must have been murdered and were much surprised when they saw her come up over the hill on a hired horse. Everyone began asking her where she had been, but she would not tell anyone her story except for her mother.

She was a changed woman from that day on. She swore off drink; she let her hair grow out and though she still refused to wear a ruffled dress and carried her rapier with her everywhere she went she gave up on staying out late by herself on dark nights.

As for the sickly Jhirayr, the boy who had been in love with her for so long, she took to visiting his sick-bed, where she allowed him to read to her the many curious stories he had, newly translated and brought at expense from far-off lands like England and France —- the mad and bad poet Lord Byron, the island of Caliban and the prometheus built out of dead bodies —- and that was as far as Nane Abandian ever wanted to encounter the otherworld.

][][

notes:

I was told a version of this fairy tale when I lived in Gyumri, Armenia (1995-97) and have changed several aspects of the plot; originally it was a about a Persian prince who refused to marry a serving girl he got pregnant, or as my translator explained it to me, “gave her the female complaint.” All the villages here are real, Artik (Արթիկ) being a charming village in the Shirak Province of northwest Armenia I visited on many occasions. Whether or not changing the Prince into Nane works will remain to be seen. As for the other words and phrases I marked anything difficult with a [*] so that the reader might know there is an explanation … somewhere. Cheers!

Alexandropol (Ալեքսանդրապոլ) —- Older, Russian name for the city of Gyumri (Գյումրի), second largest city in Armenia.

Gisher arkatsayin (Գիշեր արկածային) —- Night adventure

Sayat Nova (Հարություն Սայադյան) —- Armenian poet, musician and mystic who lived sometime between 1722 and 1795.

Aghjik (Աղջիկ) —- Daughter

Voch’inch (Ոչինչ) —- Literally meaning, “nothing,” but used in Gyumri as an expression similar to the French, “comme ci, comme ça.” (not too good, not too bad)

Khach (Խաչ) —– plural, Khaches; in Armenian mythology the Khaches were cousins to European fairies. Their name means “the brave ones,” which is similar to the Celtic reference of the “Good Folk,” addressed to spirits whose powers and intentions one could never be sure of. Modern folklore scholars have declared that the Khach were males, whereas the Javerzaharses (“perpetual virgin brides”) were their female equivalent; though with no scholars writing about them prior to the 18th century they seem a completely modern invention, perhaps borrowed from the Houri, the “modest and chaste” pleasure spirits who dwell in Jannah (paradise) in Islamic myth.

Lmb’atavank (Լմբատավանք) —- 7th Century Church of Saint Stephen, located on a hillside southwest of Artik.

Pemzashen (Պեմզաշեն), Karachanta (Արեգնադեմ) and Bashgyugh (Բաշգյուղ) —- Villages all found some distance from Artik with the Shirak valley, all with their own 4th-7th Century churches.

before the storm: poem for lilith

24 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenia, Armenian, bibical erotica, Feminism, Illustration and art, Lilith, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

≈ Comments Off on before the storm: poem for lilith

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Armenia, Armenian translation, art, Lilith, Portuguese translation, storm

before the storm 1

Ահա թե ինչ եմ հրաժարվել: խոստումը ծերության, պոեզիայի, սիրո.
Ես չեմ ուզում մի բաժակ գինի.
Բան չկա, իր բյուրեղային խորքերը.
Իմ ափիոն խողովակը վնասվել է:
LSD չի բավարարում.
Քույր. Քույր. Քույր.
Սովորեցրեք ինձ ձեր ալքիմիա.
Ես ուզում եմ իմանալ, թե ինչպես պետք է կատարել մի մոռացկոտություն դեղ, օգտագործելով ձեր կույս-կաթ.
Երեկ ես կենդանի.
Վաղը ես կլինեմ մահացած.

.
Aqui está o que eu vou desistir: a promessa da velhice, da poesia, do amor.
Eu não tenho nenhuma necessidade de copos de vinho.
Não há nada dentro de suas profundezas cristalinas.
Meu cachimbo de haxixe está quebrado.
LSD não vai satisfazer.
Irmã. Irmã. Irmã.
Ensina-me a alquimia.
Mostre-me como fazer um elixir do esquecimento do teus moça-leite.
Ontem eu estava vivo.
Amanhã vou estar morto.

.
Here’s what I’ll give up: the promise of old age, of poetry, of love.
I have no need for a glass of wine.
There is nothing within its crystal depths.
My hashish pipe is broken.
LSD will not do.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
Teach me alchemy.
Show me how to make an elixir of forgetfulness out of your girl-milk.
Yesterday I was alive.
Tomorrow I’ll be dead.

before the storm 2

before the storm 3

BODAS DE SANGRE de García Lorca: part ii

24 Friday May 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Spanish, Translation

≈ Comments Off on BODAS DE SANGRE de García Lorca: part ii

Tags

Armenian translation, Blood Wedding, drama, Federico Garcia Lorca, Ֆեդերիկո Գարսիա Լորկա, ԱՐՅԱՆ ՀԱՐՍԱՆԵԿԱՆ, Spanish translation

ACTO PRIMERO: 2
.
[HABITACIÓN PINTADA DE ROSA CON COBRES Y RAMOS DE FLORES POPULARES. EN EL CENTRO, UNA MESA CON MANTEL. ES LA MAÑANA. SUEGRA DE LEONARDO CON UN NIÑO EN BRAZOS. LO MECE. LA MUJER, EN LA OTRA ESQUINA, HACE PUNTO DE MEDIA]

SUEGRA:
Nana, niño, nana
del caballo grande
que no quiso el agua.
El agua era negra
dentro de las ramas.
Cuando llega el puente
se detiene y canta.
¿Quién dirá, mi niño,
lo que tiene el agua
con su larga cola
por su verde sala?

MUJER [bajo]:
Duérmete, clavel,
que el caballo no quiere beber.

SUEGRA:
Duérmete, rosal,
que el caballo se pone a llorar.
Las patas heridas,
las crines heladas,
dentro de los ojos
un puñal de plata.
Bajaban al río.
¡Ay, cómo bajaban!
La sangre corría
más fuerte que el agua.

MUJER:
Duérmete, clavel,
que el caballo no quiere beber.

SUEGRA:
Duérmete, rosal,
que el caballo se pone a llorar.

MUJER:
No quiso tocar
la orilla mojada,
su belfo caliente
con moscas de plata.
A los montes duros
solo relinchaba
con el río muerto
sobre la garganta.
¡Ay caballo grande
que no quiso el agua!
¡Ay dolor de nieve,
caballo del alba!

SUEGRA:
¡No vengas! Detente,
cierra la ventana
con rama de sueños
y sueño de ramas.

MUJER:
Mi niño se duerme.

SUEGRA:
Mi niño se calla.

MUJER:
Caballo, mi niño
tiene una almohada.

SUEGRA:
Su cuna de acero.

MUJER:
Su colcha de holanda.

SUEGRA:
Nana, niño, nana.

MUJER:
¡Ay caballo grande
que no quiso el agua!

SUEGRA:
¡No vengas, no entres!
Vete a la montaña.
Por los valles grises
donde está la jaca.

MUJER [mirando]:
Mi niño se duerme.

SUEGRA:
Mi niño descansa.

MUJER [bajito]:
Duérmete, clavel,
que el caballo no quiere beber.

MUJER [levantándose, y muy bajito]:
Duérmete, rosal.
que el caballo se pone a llorar.

[ENTRAN AL NIÑO. ENTRA LEONARDO]

LEONARDO: ¿Y el niño?

MUJER: Se durmió.

LEONARDO: Ayer no estuvo bien. Lloró por la noche.

MUJER [alegre]: Hoy está como una dalia. ¿Y tú? ¿Fuiste a casa del herrador?

LEONARDO: De allí vengo. ¿Querrás creer? Llevo más de dos meses poniendo herraduras nuevas al caballo y siempre se le caen. Por lo visto se las arranca con las piedras.

MUJER: ¿Y no será que lo usas mucho?

LEONARDO: No. Casi no lo utilizo.

MUJER: Ayer me dijeron las vecinas que te habían visto al límite de los llanos.

LEONARDO: ¿Quién lo dijo?

MUJER: Las mujeres que cogen las alcaparras. Por cierto que me sorprendió. ¿Eras tú?

LEONARDO: No. ¿Qué iba a hacer yo allí en aquel secano?

MUJER: Eso dije. Pero el caballo estaba reventando de sudor.

LEONARDO: ¿Lo viste tú?

MUJER: No. Mi madre.

LEONARDO: ¿Está con el niño?

MUJER: Sí. ¿Quieres un refresco de limón?

LEONARDO: Con el agua bien fría.

MUJER: ¡Cómo no viniste a comer!…

LEONARDO: Estuve con los medidores del trigo. Siempre entretienen.

MUJER [haciendo el refresco y muy tierna]: ¿Y lo pagan a buen precio?

LEONARDO: El justo.

MUJER: Me hace falta un vestido y al niño una gorra con lazos.

LEONARDO [levantándose]: Voy a verlo.

MUJER: Ten cuidado, que está dormido.

SUEGRA [saliendo]: Pero ¿quién da esas carreras al caballo? Está abajo, tendido, con los ojos desorbitados, como si llegara del fin del mundo.

LEONARDO [agrio]: Yo.

SUEGRA: Perdona; tuyo es.

MUJER [tímida]: Estuvo con los medidores del trigo.

SUEGRA: Por mí, que reviente. [se sienta]

MUJER: El refresco. ¿Está frío?

LEONARDO: Sí.

MUJER: ¿Sabes que piden a mi prima?

LEONARDO: ¿Cuándo?

MUJER: Mañana. La boda será dentro de un mes. Espero que vendrán a invitarnos.

LEONARDO [serio]: No sé.

SUEGRA: La madre de él creo que no estaba muy satisfecha con el casamiento.

LEONARDO: Y quizá tenga razón. Ella es de cuidado.

MUJER: No me gusta que penséis mal de una buena muchacha.

SUEGRA: Pero cuando dice eso es porque la conoce. ¿No ves que fue tres años novia suya? [con intención]

LEONARDO: Pero la dejé. [a su mujer] ¿Vas a llorar ahora? ¡Quita! [la aparta bruscamente las manos de la cara] Vamos a ver al niño. [entran abrazados]

[APARECE LA MUCHACHA, ALEGRE. ENTRA CORRIENDO]

MUCHACHA: Señora.

SUEGRA: ¿Qué pasa?

MUCHACHA: Llegó el novio a la tienda y ha comprado todo lo mejor que había.

SUEGRA: ¿Vino solo?

MUCHACHA: No, con su madre. Seria, alta. [la imita] Pero ¡qué lujo!

SUEGRA: Ellos tienen dinero.

MUCHACHA: ¡Y compraron unas medias caladas!… ¡Ay, qué medias! ¡El sueño de las mujeres en medias! Mire usted: una golondrina aquí [señala el tobillo], un barco aquí [señala la pantorrilla] y aquí una rosa. [señala el muslo]

SUEGRA: ¡Niña!

MUCHACHA: ¡Una rosa con las semillas y el tallo! ¡Ay! ¡Todo en seda!

SUEGRA: Se van a juntar dos buenos capitales.

[APARECEN LEONARDO Y SU MUJER]

MUCHACHA: Vengo a deciros lo que están comprando.

LEONARDO [fuerte]: No nos importa.

MUJER: Déjala.

SUEGRA: Leonardo, no es para tanto.

MUCHACHA: Usted dispense. [se va llorando]

SUEGRA: ¿Qué necesidad tienes de ponerte a mal con las gentes?

Leonardo: No le he preguntado su opinión. [se sienta]

SUEGRA: Está bien.

[PAUSA]

MUJER [a Leonardo]: ¿Qué te pasa? ¿Qué idea te bulle por dentro de cabeza? No me dejes así, sin saber nada…

Leonardo: Quita.

MUJER: No. Quiero que me mires y me lo digas.

Leonardo: Déjame. [se levanta]

MUJER: ¿Adónde vas, hijo?

LEONARDO [agrio]: ¿Te puedes callar?

SUEGRA [enérgica, a su hija]: ¡Cállate! ¡El niño! [entra y vuelve a salir con él en brazos]
Las patas heridas,
las crines heladas,
dentro de los ojos
un puñal de plata.
Bajaban al río.
La sangre corría
más fuerte que el agua.

MUJER [volviéndose lentamente y como soñando]
Duérmete, clavel,
que el caballo se pone a beber.

SUEGRA:
Duérmete, rosal,
que el caballo se pone a llorar.

MUJER:
Nana, niño, nana.

SUEGRA:
Ay, caballo grande,
que no quiso el agua!

MUJER [dramática]:
¡No vengas, no entres!
¡Vete a la montaña!
¡Ay dolor de nieve,
caballo del alba!

SUEGRA [Llorando]:
Mi niño se duerme…

MUJER [llorando y acercándose lentamente]:
Mi niño descansa…

SUEGRA:
Duérmete, clavel,
que el caballo no quiere beber.

MUJER [llorando y apoyándose sobre la mesa]:
Duérmete, rosal,
que el caballo se pone a llorar.

[TELÓN]
.
* * *
.
[MORNING. A ROSE-COLORED ROOM WITH WREATHS OF FLOWERS AND GLEAMING COPPER POTS AND PANS. IN THE CENTER, A TABLE WITH A TABLECLOTH. LEONARDO’S MOTHER-IN-LAW CRADLES A BOY IN HER ARMS, ROCKING. LEONARDO’S WIFE IS MENDING STOCKINGS]

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Hush, baby, hush.
Dream of a great black stallion
that would not drink the water.
Wouldn’t drink the water.
The water was black
under the branches.
Under the branches
the water was black.
Under the bridge
it stopped and sang.
Who can say, my baby,
of the water’s pain?
Of the water’s pain
who can say?
As it draws its long tail
through deep green room …

WIFE [quietly singing]:
Go to sleep, my carnation,
for the horse will not want to drink deep.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.

WIFE:
The hooves are all red with blood,
and all its horsey hair frozen.
And deep within its eyes
rests a broken silver dagger.
Down they went to the river’s edge.
Ai!, how they went down!
And its blood ran faster
than the running water.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.

WIFE:
It will not touch
the river’s edge,
it will not, no it will not
though its mouth is hot
with silver flies.
O to the hard mountains
it can only whinny
with the dead river
stuck in its throat.
Ai!, the giant horse
that did not want the water!
Ai!, the pain of the snow,
for a horse made of the dawn!

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Keep away now! Stop it,
and close the windows.
Use branches of dreams
and dream of branches.

WIFE:
Horse, my boy
has his own pillow.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Dream, softly dream.

WIFE:
Now my boy sleeps.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
His cradle is made of steel.

WIFE:
His blanket is of fine Holland linen.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Hush, baby, hush.

WIFE:
Ai!, the giant horse
that did not want the water!

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Keep away now! Do not enter!
Run to the mountains
down through the gray valleys
to your mare’s side.

WIFE [looking at sleeping BOY]:
Now my boy sleeps.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Now my baby is quiet.

WIFE [softly]:
Sleep, my carnation, of
the giant horse that
did not want the water.

MOTHER-IN-LAW [rising softly]:
Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.

[MOTHER-IN-LAW EXITS CARRYING THE BOY. PAUSE. LEONARDO ENTERS]

LEONARDO: Where’s the boy?

WIFE: He fell asleep.

LEONARDO: Yesterday he was not well. He cried all night.

WIFE [happily]: And today he is fresh like a dahlia. And you? Were you at the blacksmith today?

LEONARDO: I’ve just come from there. Can you believe it? For more than two months he has been putting new horseshoes on our horse and they are always falling off. As far as I can tell he keep tripping on the stones.

WIFE: Could it not be that you ride him a bit too much?

LEONARDO: No … what would I being doing out there, in that wasteland?

WIFE: Yesterday the Neighbors told me they had seen you out on the other side of the wastelands.

LEONARDO: Who told you that?

WIFE: The women who picks the capers. It certainly did surprise me … was it you?

LEONARDO: No … I say again, what would I being doing out there, in that wasteland?

WIFE: That is what I said. But they say the horse was burning with sweat.

LEONARDO: Did you see him?

WIFE: No. But Mother did.

LEONARDO: Is she with the boy?

WIFE: Yes. Do you want some lemonade?

LEONARDO: Only with icy water.

WIFE: Why did you not come home to eat …?

LEONARDO: I was busy with the wheat buyers. They always take their time.

WIFE [very tenderly as she makes the lemonade]: And did they give you a good price?

LEONARDO: It was … fair.

WIFE: I am hoping for a new dress and the boy needs a new cap with ribbons.

LEONARDO [rising]: I am going to go see him.

WIFE: Please, try not to wake him.

MOTHER-IN-LAW [entering]: Who is trying to kill our horse? He is worn down, worn out, lathered in sweat. Look at those crazy, pop-eyes. It looks as if someone has just arrived from the ends of the earth. Who …?

LEONARDO [bitterly]: Me.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: O! pardon me, of course, it is yours to do as you like.

WIFE [timidly]: He was down with the the wheat buyers.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: He can go down to hell, for all I care. [she pauses, sits]

WIFE: Your drink, is it cold enough?

LEONARDO: Yes.

WIFE: Have you heard? My cousin is getting engaged!

LEONARDO: When?

WIFE: Tomorrow. The wedding will be within a month. I hope that they will come to invite to us.

LEONARDO [seriously]: I do not know.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: I hear that his mother was not very happy with the arrangement.

LEONARDO: And … perhaps she is right. She is a girl that needs constant watching.

WIFE: I do not like that you think bad things about a good girl.

MOTHER-IN-LAW [with malice]: Bah! when he says that it is because he knows all about it. Don’t you remember that she was his fiancee three years?

LEONARDO: But I left her. [to WIFE] What? Are you going to cry now? Stop it! [He roughly pulls her hands from her face] Come! we are going to see the boy.

[THEY EXIT. A GIRL APPEARS IN THE DOORWAY. SHE RUNS IN CHEERFULLY]

GIRL: Señora.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: What is it?

GIRL: The young man arrived at the store and bought all the best things we had.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Was he alone?

GIRL: No, he came with his mother. Serious, tall. [she strikes a pose to imitate her] But very proud!

MOTHER-IN-LAW: They have money.

GIRL: And they bought some open-work stockings! … Ai!, what stockings! The sort you can only dream about! Look: a swallow here [she indicates the ankle], and a boat here [she indicates the thigh] and a rose here. [she indicates her hip] …

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Child!

GIRL: A rose with seeds and stem! Ai! Everything in silk!

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Two rich families are being brought together.

[LEONARDO AND WIFE ENTER]

GIRL: I came to tell you what they are buying.

LEONARDO [harshly]: We don’t care.

WIFE: Leave her alone.

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Leonardo, it is not important.

GIRL: Please … excuse me [she exits, weeping]

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Why is it a necessity for you to act badly with everyone?

LEONARDO: I did not ask your opinion. [he sits]

MOTHER-IN-LAW: Very well. [she slowly sits down, pause]

WIFE [to LEONARDO]: What has happened to you? What ideas do you have going on the inside of your head? Do not leave me like this, without knowing what is going on …

LEONARDO: Stop this.

WIFE: No, I will not. Look me in the eye and me and tell me.

LEONARDO: Leave me alone. [he rises]

WIFE: Where are you going?

LEONARDO [bitterly]: Why won’t you shut up?

MOTHER-IN-LAW [grimly, to WIFE]: Shhhh! [LEONARDO exits] The baby!

[SHE EXITS AND RETURNS WITH BOY IN HER ARMS. THE WIFE REMAINS STANDING, IMMOVABLE]

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
The hooves are all red with blood,
and all its horsey hair frozen.
And deep within its eyes
rests a broken silver dagger.
Down they went to the river’s edge.
Ai!, how they went down!
And its blood ran faster
than the running water.

WIFE [turning slowly around as if dreaming]:
Go to sleep, my carnation,
for the horse will not want to drink deep.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.

WIFE:
Hush, baby, hush.

MOTHER-IN-LAW:
Sleep, my carnation, of
the giant horse that
did not want the water.

WIFE [dramatically]:
Keep away now! Do not enter!
Run to the mountains
Ai!, the pain of the snow,
for a horse made of the dawn!

MOTHER-IN-LAW [weeping]:
Now my boy sleeps …

WIFE [weeping, slowly moving near]:
Now my baby is quiet …
Sleep, my carnation, of
the giant horse that
did not want the water.

BOTH WOMEN [crying and leaning on the table]:

Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.

[CURTAIN]
.
* * *
.
[ԱՌԱՎՈՏ. ՎԱՐԴԱԳՈՒՅՆ ՍԵՆՅԱԿ. ԾԱՂԻԿՆԵՐ ԵՒ ՊՂՆՁԻ ՓՈՔՐ ԿԱԹՍԱՆԵՐ ԵՆ ԱՆՈՒՄ ՊԱՏԻՆ. ԿԵՆՏՐՈՆՈՒՄ Է ՍԵՆՅԱԿՈՒՄ, ԿԱ ՄԻ ՍԵՂԱՆ. ԼՕՐՐԱՆՆԵՐԻՑ ՈՐԴԻ ԶՈՔԱՆՉ ԳԻՐԿԸ. ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ ՈՒ ՁԵՒ]

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Օրօր, տղա, օրօր,
երազանքը մեծ սեւ հովատակ,
որը չի խմել ջուր.
Նա չէր խմել ջուր.
Ջրի էր սեւ,
տակ մասնաճյուղերում.
Տակ մասնաճյուղերում,
որ ջուր էր սեւ.
Տակ կամրջի,
այն դադարեց,
այն երգում էին.
Ով կարող է ասել,
իմ երեխային,
որ ջրի ցավի?
Ջրից էլ ցավի,
ով կարող է ասել.
Այն այն քարշ է իր պոչը
են խորը կանաչ սենյակում …

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [երգում հանգիստ]:
Գնալ քնել, իմ կարմիր մեխակ,
համար ձիու չի խմել ջուր.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Երազ, քնում, իմ փոքրիկ վարդ.
Ձին այժմ սկսում են լաց.
Նրա ոտքերը են կարմիր արյունով,
եւ նրա մազերը սառեցված.
Եւ խորը ներսում իր աչքի
ընկած կոտրված արծաթե դաշույն.
ներքեւ նրանք գնացին գետի հետ եզրին.
Աի!, են նրանք իջան.
Եւ նրա արյունը վազում
ավելի արագ, քան հոսող ջուրը.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Երազ, քնում, իմ փոքրիկ վարդ.
Ձին այժմ սկսում են լաց.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Այն չի դիպչել
գետի է եզրին.
Այն չի. Ոչ, դա չի.
Սակայն նրա բերանը
լեցուն է արծաթի ճանճեր.
Աի!, երեխային դաժանաբար լեռները,
այն կարող է միայն լաց լինել,
նաեւ մահացած գետի խրված իր կոկորդին.
Աի!, հսկա ձին է,
որը չի ցանկանում,
որ ջուրը.
Աի!, ձյունը լի է ցավի
համար լուսաբացին ձիու.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Հեռացեք. Դադարեցնել այն.
Փակել պատուհանները.
Օգտագործեք մասնաճյուղեր երազանքների,
ու երազանքն մոտ ճյուղերի.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Երազանքը մասին ձիու, որդիս.
Երազանքը վրա ձեր բարձի.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Երազանքը մեղմորեն.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Երազ հիմա իմ որդուն.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Նրա բնօրրանը է պատրաստված պողպատից.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Նրա վերմակ է նուրբ Հոլանդիայի սպիտակեղեն.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Օրօր, տղա, օրօր.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Աի!, հսկա ձին է,
որը չի ցանկանում,
որ ջուրը.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Հեռացեք. Դադարեցնել այն.
Առաջադրվել սարը,
եւ ներքեւ միջոցով գորշ հովիտներում.
Ձեր ձիու է վարման.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [դադար]:
Հիմա իմ տղայի որը քնած.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Հիմա իմ տղայի հանգիստ է.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [մեղմորեն]:
Գնալ քնել, իմ կարմիր մեխակ,
համար ձիու չի խմել ջուր.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ [rising softly]:
Երազ, իմ փոքրիկ վարդ.
Ձին այժմ սկսում են լաց.

[ԶՈՔԱՆՉ ԴՈՒՐՍ, ՏԱՆՈՒՄ ՏՂԱՅԻՆ. ԴԱԴԱՐ. ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ ՄՏՆՈՒՄ Է]

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Որտեղ է տղան?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Քնած.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Երեկ, նա հիվանդ է. Նա լաց.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [հաջողությամբ]: Եվ այսօր նա թարմ նման գեորգենի. Եվ դուք? Էիք այցելելով դարբին այսօր?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ես պարզապես եկել այնտեղից. Կարող եք համոզված են, որ? Ավելի քան երկու ամիս է օգտագործել նոր նալ, ու նրանք միշտ ընկնում է. Որքանով ես կարող եմ ասել, որ ձիու շարունակում արագոտն քարերի վրա.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Դուք զբոսանք նրան շատ դժվար է?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ոչ. Որտեղ ես լողալ նրան այդ անապատում?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: YԵրեկ, մեր հարեւանը տեսաւ եք, ձիավարություն անապատում.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ինչ?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Լուրը զարմացրել ինձ. Էր, որ դուք?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ասացի, ոչ. Որտեղ ես լողալ նրան այդ անապատում?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Թերեւս. Նրանք ասացին, որ ձիու էր, քրտնած.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Արդյոք դուք տեսնում նրան. ?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ոչ. Բայց իմ մայրը տեսաւ նրան.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Որտեղ է նա.?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Հետ տղայի. Ցանկանում եք լիմոնադ?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Թիվ Սառը ջուր.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ինչու չի վերադառնում տուն ուտել?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ես զբաղված են ցորենի գնորդներ. Նրանք միշտ էլ դանդաղ.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [բարյացակամորեն]: Իսկ նրանք ձեզ մի լավ գին?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Դա … արդար.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ես ուզում եմ մի նոր զգեստը. Տղան կարիք ունի նոր գլխարկը.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ [մեծացող]: Ես ուզում եմ տեսնել նրան.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Բայց նա քնում.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ [մտնելով]: Ով փորձում է սպանել մեր ձիու? Նա մաշված են, մաշված, lathered են քրտինք. Նայիր այդ խենթ աչքերով. Այն նայում, քանի որ եթե այն նոր է ժամանել էին դժոխք. Ով …?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ [դաժան]: Ինձ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Ներեցեք ինձ, իհարկե, դա ձերն է անել, ինչպես Դուք եք ցանկանում.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ [քաշվող]: Նա իջնում է ցորենի գնորդներ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Նա կարող է գնալ դժոխք. Ոչինչ. [նստում է աթոռին]

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: YԱհա ձեր ջուր. Դա սառը?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Այո.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Կա նորություններ. Հորեղբորս տղան էլ ամուսնանալուց.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Երբ?

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Հարսանյաց կլինի մեկ ամսից. Հուսով եմ, որ նրանք հրավիրում մեզ.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ [լրջորեն]: Չգիտեմ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Ես լսում եմ, որ նրա մայրը, շատ գոհ ոչ դասաւորութեան պատճառով.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Եվ, թերեւս … նա ճիշտ է. Նա մի աղջիկ, որը կարիք ունի մշտական նայում.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ես չեմ սիրում որ դուք ասում եք վատ խոսք լավ աղջկա.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ [չարակամություն]: Ոչինչ. երբ նա ասում է, որ, քանի որ նա գիտի բոլորի մասին. Չեք հիշում, որ նա նրա հարսնացուն է երեք տարի?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Բայց ես լքել է նրան. Ինչ? Դուք պատրաստվում լաց հիմա? Դադարեցնել այն. [Նա մոտ խլում է իր ձեռքերը իր դեմքը] Եկեք! մենք տեսնում տղային.

[ՆՐԱՆՔ ԴՈՒՐՍ ԳԱԼ. ՄԻ ԱՂՋԻԿ ԱՍՎԱԾ Է ՍԵՆՅԱԿՈՒՄ. ՆԱ ՈՒՐԱԽ.]

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Տատիկ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Ինչ?

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Երիտասարդը ժամանել է խանութ եւ գնել բոլոր լավագույն բաները, որ մենք ունեցել.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Նա մենակ?

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Ոչ, նա իր մոր հետ. Լուրջ, բարձրահասակ, հպարտ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Նրանք գումար.

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Եվ նրանք գնել կիսազուգագուլպաներ … Աի!, Ինչ երկար կիսազուգագուլպաներ. Դուք կարող եք միայն երազել մոտ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Դուստր !

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Ամեն ինչ մետաքս!

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Հարուստ ընտանիքները ամուսնանում հարուստ ընտանիք.

[ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ ԵՎ ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ ՎԵՐԱԴԱՌՆԱԼՈՒ]

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Ես եկել եմ պատմել ձեզ, թե ինչ են նրանք գնում.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ [դաժան]: Մենք չենք մտածում!

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Թողնել նրան մենակ.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Լէոնարդո-յան, դա կարեւոր չէ.

ԱՂՋՆԱԿ: Խնդրում եմ … ներել ինձ [ելք, լալիս]

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Ինչու եք դաժան բոլորին?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ես չեմ հարցնում, ձեր կարծիքը. [նա նստում]

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Ոչինչ. [նա նստում]

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ինչ է պատահել ձեզ. Ինչ եք մտածում? Ասա ինձ, թե ինչ է կատարվում.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Դադարեցնել խոսում այս մասին.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ոչ. Նայիր ինձ աչքով եւ ասա ինձ.

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ: Ինձ հանգիստ թողեք. [կանգնում է]

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ: Ուր ես գնում?

ԼԷՈՆԱՐԴՈ [դաժան]: Եղեք հանգիստ է.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ: Մի արթնացրու երեխային!

[ՆԱ ԴՈՒՐՍ Է, ԵՒ ՎԵՐԱԴԱՌՆՈՒՄ ՀԵՏ ՏՂԱՅԻ ԳԻՐԿԸ]

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Նրա ոտքերը են կարմիր արյունով,
եւ նրա մազերը սառեցված.
Եւ խորը ներսում իր աչքի
ընկած կոտրված արծաթե դաշույն.
ներքեւ նրանք գնացին գետի հետ եզրին.
Աի!, են նրանք իջան.
Եւ նրա արյունը վազում
ավելի արագ, քան հոսող ջուրը.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Գնալ քնել, իմ կարմիր մեխակ,
համար ձիու չի խմել ջուր.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Երազ, քնում, իմ փոքրիկ վարդ.
Ձին այժմ սկսում են լաց.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Օրօր, տղա, օրօր.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Հսկա ձին է,
որը չի ցանկանում,
որ ջուրը.
Աի!, ձյունը լի է ցավի
համար լուսաբացին ձիու.

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Հեռացեք. Դադարեցնել այն.
Փակել պատուհանները.
Օգտագործեք մասնաճյուղեր երազանքների,
ու երազանքն մոտ ճյուղերի.

ԶՈՔԱՆՉ:
Երազանքը մեղմորեն …

ԿԻՆ ԱՄՈՒՍԻՆ:
Հսկա ձին է,
որը չի ցանկանում,
որ ջուրը.
Ջրից էլ ցավի,
ով կարող է ասել?

ԵՐԿՈՒ ԿԱՆԱՅՔ:
Երազ, քնում, իմ փոքրիկ վարդ.
Ձին այժմ սկսում են լաց.

[ՎԱՐԱԳՈՒՅՐՆԵՐԻ]

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ars poetica: the blogs p-r

  • nikki reimer
  • split this rock
  • helen rickerby
  • red cedar review
  • joanna preston
  • sina queyras
  • poetry society of michigan
  • rachel phillips
  • nicole peyrafitte
  • katrina rodabaugh
  • kristin prevallet
  • susan rich
  • ariana reines
  • sophie robinson
  • chamko rani
  • pearl pirie
  • d. a. powell
  • maria padhila

ars poetica: the blogs s-z

  • switchback books
  • tim yu
  • southern michigan poetry
  • ron silliman
  • vassilis zambaras
  • temple of sekhmet
  • tuesday poems
  • scottish poetry library
  • shin yu pai
  • sharon zeugin
  • sexy poets society
  • womens quarterly conversation
  • tamar yoseloff
  • umbrella
  • Stray Lower

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