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Lake
Why are your waves, O lake,
Amazed and motionless?
Is it because a beautiful soul
Has gazed into your mirror?
Or is it because your waves
Admire the azure of the sky
And the silvery clouds
That resemble your foam?
O my melancholy lake
Let us be friends.
I like to contemplate,
Meditate and be silent like you.
As many thoughts are on my face
As wrinkles on your waves!
My heart has as many wounds
As bubbles have your waves!
Even if the constellations
Drop into your lap,
You cannot be like my soul,
Full of endless flames.
There, the stars do not die,
There, the flowers do not fade,
The clouds do not become rain,
When the air and you are calm.
O lake, you are my queen,
Even if a wind covers you with wrinkles,
Again, in your saddened heart,
You hold me quivering.
Many have rejected me:
"He has nothing but a lyre,"
One said: "He is fragile and pale."
Another said: "He will die."
No one said: "Poor child,
Why does he smolder?
Were he beloved
Perhaps he would live.
No one said: "Let us open
The sad heart of this child,
To see there all that is written...
"They will not find a book, but a fire."
Only ashes...memories...
Grow stormy, swell up, lake
For a desperate soul,
Gazed into your depth.
|
| |
Le lac
Pourquoi tes flots, ô lac,
Sont-ils stupéfaits et immobiles?
Est-ce parce qu’une belle
Se contempla dans ton miroir?
Ou est-ce parce que tes flots
Ont admiré l’azur du ciel,
Et les nuages étincelants
Qui ressemblent à tes écumes?
Ô mon lac mélancolique
Soyons amis, car moi aussi
J’aime me recueillir, me taire,
Et méditer comme tu le fais.
Mon front reflète autant de soucis
Que tes vagues ont de rides!
Mon coeur a autant de blessures
Que tes vagues ont d’écume!
Même si les constellations du ciel
Croulaient toutes en ton sein,
Tu ne pourrais pas ressembler
A mon âme pleine de flammes
Là, nulle étoile ne meurt,
Là, nulle fleur ne flétrit,
Nul nuage ne devient pluie
Quand vous êtes calmes l’air et toi !
Ô lac, c’est toi ma reine,
Car même si le vent te couvre de rides,
Tu me gardes toujours en tremblant
Dans ta profondeur inquiète.
Beaucoup m’ont repoussé,
En disant : «Il n’a qu’une lyre».
L’une a dit, «Il est pâle et fragile»,
L’autre: «Il va mourir».
Personne n’a dit : « Pauvre enfant,
Pourquoi donc se consume-t-il? »
Si je l’aimais il serait beau,
Et peut-être ne mourrait-il pas.
Personne n’a dit : «Ouvrons
Le coeur obscur de cet enfant,
Pour voir tout ce qui y est écrit...»
Ce n’est pas un livre, rien que du feu.
Il n’y a là que de la cendre... des souvenirs...
Ô lac que tes flots se troublent!
Dans ta profondeur un désespéré
S’est contemplé avec tristesse.
|
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...
