A Handful Of Ash, Home Of My Fatherland

Atom Yarjanian

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Alas! You were great and glorious like a palace,
And I, from the white tops of your roofs,
With the light of the divine nights,
Listened to the raging Euphrates from below...


With tears, with tears did I hear that ruin by ruin,
Your massive walls fell one after another,
In a day of horror, a day of massacre, a day of blood...
On the flowers of the garden which surrounded you.


And that blue room had turned to ashes,
Where behind its walls and on its carpets
My happy childhood had taken its delight,
And my life had grown and my spirit had developed wings...


Did it crush, then, that gold-rimmed mirror,
In whose heavenly depth
My dreams, hopes, loves and red will,
For years reflected with my thoughts...?


And did the fountain which sang in the yard die?
And did my garden's willow and berry trees break?
And that stream which flowed among the trees,
Is it dry, tell me, where is it, is it dry, is it dry...?


O, I dream often of that cage,
In which my gray quail, in the morning,
With the sunrise and across from the rose bushes,
At my waking hour chirped clearly.


Home of my fatherland, believe me, that after my death,
On the blackness of your ruins my soul,
Will come as a banished turtle-dove,
To cry with the tear and song of its misfortune...


But who will bring, who will bring, tell me,
From your sacrosanct ashes a handful of ash,
On the day of my death and in my sad coffin,
To mix with this fatherland singer's remains...?


A handful of ash with my remains, home of my fatherland,
A handful of ash, from your ashes, who will bring me?
From your memory, from your pain, from your past,
A handful of ash...to sow upon my heart...

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