ÒºèܲÌàô
¶É˳ñÏ¿Ý
²Õ³õÝÇÝ»ñ
¹áõñë ÏÁ ѳݿ,
áñ ûõ Ϫ³éÝ»Ý,
ÏÁ ÃéãÇÝ,
ܳå³ëï³ÏÝ»ñ
í»ñ ÏÁ ù³ß¿,
áñ ÏÁ í³½»Ý,
ÏÁ ÷³ËãÇÝ
ºõ ¹»é ÇÝ㻯ñ..
ÆÝã áñ Ϫ³ÝóÝÇ
Ó»ñ Ùïù¿Ý
²Ý ·É˳ñÏ¿Ý
ÏÁ ѳݿ,
ê³Ï³ÛÝ Çñ»Ý
ÏÁ å³Ñ¿
ºõ áã Ù¿ÏáõÝ
µ³Ý ãÇ ï³ñ...
ØdzÛÝ ÇÝã
áñ Ù»ñ Ùïù¿Ý...
ÆÝã áñ Ϫ³ÝóÝÇ
Ù»ñ ëñï¿Ý
⪻ÉÉ»ñ ³Ýáñ
·É˳ñÏ¿Ý...
ä³Ñ ÙÁ Û³ÝϳñÍ
ÏÁ Ûáõë³¹ñ¿,
äÇïÇ Ñ³Ý¿
ÏÁ ϳñÍ»Ýù,
ºñµ ·áÛݽ·áÛÝ
ɳûñ, ùáõñç»ñ,
ijå³õ¿ÝÝ»ñ
áõ ųݻ³ÏÝ»ñ
ÏÁ ¹Ç½¿,
ê³Ï³ÛÝ Û»ïáÛ
Ø»ñ ³ãù»ñáõÝ
³ëïÕ³÷áßÇ
ÏÁ ÷ã¿...
- ä³ñá°Ý
ϳ˳ñ¹
ػͳå³ïÇ°õ
Ó»éݳÍáõ,
Ðñ³ß³·á°ñÍ
³×å³ñ³ñ,
²ëïáõ³¯Í ÇÙ,
ÆÝã ³ÝáõÝ
áñ Ϫáõ½»ë‘
ï³Ýù,
ÆÝãù³Ý ³ñÇõÝ
Ϫáõ½»ë‘ ɳÝù,
ØdzÛÝ Ñ³Ý¿°
³ÛÝ áñ Ëáóáõ³Í
Ù»ñ Ñá·ÇÇÝ
ͳÕÇÏÝ ¿,
ØÇ° ï³ñ Ù»½Ç,
Ù»ñ Ñá·Á ã¿,
ÙdzÛÝ ï»ëÝ»Ýù‘
ÏÁ µ³õ¿...
|
Magician
From his hat,
He pulls out doves that take wing and fly,
Rabbits that escape and flee,
And so many other things...
Whatever comes into your head,
He draws out from his hat,
But he keeps it for himself,
Gives nothing to anyone
But whatever comes into our head...
Whatever our heart desires
Does not emerge from his hat...
For a moment he gives us hope,
We think he'll pull it out,
Yet, he only piles up colorful cloths,
Rags, ribbons and laces,
And then,
He blows silver dust into our eyes...
Mister sorcerer,
Very honorable magician,
Miraculous illusionist,
Oh, God,
We will call you what you wish
We will weep all the blood you want,
Only pull out the flower of our wounded heart,
Don't give it to us, never mind, just show it us, that's enough...
|
| |
Le Prestidigitateur
Il sort de son chapeau
Des colombes qui s’envolent prenant des ailes,
Des colombes qui s’envolent à tire-d’aile,
Il sort des lapins qui courent et qui s’enfuient,
Et tellement d’autres choses...
Ce qui vous passe par la tête
Il le sort de son chapeau,
Mais le garde avec lui
Et ne donne rien à personne.
Mais ce qui nous passe par la tête,
Ce qui sort de notre coeur,
Ne sort plus de son chapeau.
Un moment, il nous donne de l’espoir,
On pense qu’il va l’en faire sortir,
Mais ce n’est qu’un tas de chiffons, de tissus,
Des rubans et des dentelles.
Et puis après,
De la poudre aux yeux, de la poudre argentée...
Monsieur le magicien,
Très honorable prestidigitateur,
Miraculeux illusionniste,
Mon Dieu,
On t’appellera comme tu le veux,
On pleurera tout le sang de notre corps,
Pourvu que tu sortes la fleur de notre âme blessée,
Ne nous la donne pas, montre-la nous et ça nous suffira...
|
Several years ago, the Tekeyan Cultural Association
had a celebration in New York City, honoring the 75th
anniversary of the Armenian writer and poet Khachik
Dashtents. I took part in the evening, interpreting
two songs that I wrote using the lyrics of his poems.
The text of one of 
these
songs, Armenian, which I adapted into the form of an
anthem, is included in all handbooks of Armenian literature
published in the Diaspora. The audience greeted the
song with great enthusiasm. I believe there were two
reasons for this. In the first place, its message exhorts
students to speak Armenian in the countries where it
is threatened with disappearance; and in the second
place, I sang it with a little choir of young girls
who presumably have gotten the message...
