I
Now, when The city’s crooked and blemished face Is coated in white anguish, And in each fold of the brain Exists a cruel mania of lethal saws. Now, when The temple’s domes Are fused with white mist, And the unsuspended crosses Blessing nothing are bolted, motionless, in the air. Now, when In the gardens of paradise The trees of our childhood dreams Topple mercilessly, And the dismal chimneys of painful moans Quickly burn The asteroids of our fragile souls Reducing them to smoke and soot. Now, when The gray wolf’s bloody paws Insatiably scratch The roofless expanse of A glorious history, And the rising tree’s branchless morality Slowly rots Waiting for no victims . . . Now, when The white anguish Snows from the soul’s sky Onto the dark streets of noxious days, And phantom hands of terror Paint black crosses on houses, And the houses are encased in iron bars, And the trees are encased in iron bars, And slowly With a cold, arachnoid silent patience, With the insatiable mania for steel and metal, Our souls become barricaded And the weapon, denying its bankrupt mission, in the heights of vulgarity stabs the bloodless belly of a dying justice. Now, when In lethal darkness of the houses The crippled, crazy, gray masks unflinchingly watching through the shattered mirror, Are tortured. Now, when The moan, The cry, The wail having become an iceberg clogged in the strained vocal chords Oh, don’t ask, don’t ask How Anchored like a sphynx I became PRODIGAL SON
II
The white roofs, The white trees, The white streets Don’t witness winter. This is an omen of torn masks, This is an omen of a kind of payment, This is the omen of a sweet joy, This is the omen of self-discovery. The torment of the white anguish From the soul’s abyss, Like the boulder of Sisyphus, Rolls infinitely From Spring to Winter, From Winter to Spring, And our portion of life’s joy, Is the delight of the color of the mountain’s rock, The unnamed flower’s luminous charm, The flapping of the unknown bird’s wings Planting grief in the garden of memories, Is the charm of the word, In glide of speech, The liberation of the paint, The delight of the color on the canvas, And our portion of life’s joy Is seeking truce with the bombs, Is the panic Of having lost the thread of our salvation In the labyrinth of uncertainty. In grandiosely making sense of Our uncertain, meaningless days In the noisy taverns In the madness of the grapes In the message of silence It is the Punctual Provision of survival coupons Every hour, Every day, Every year, Every season It is in plugging with our torn bodies The open barrel of Pandora’s disasters, and malice. It is in the pleasure of coffee In a dark corner With the pipe of patience. It is in illuminating, with the brightness of love, heaven and hell, Chaos, purgatory, The Beginning and the End, In becoming the wick in love’s lamp, The blending of all matter With the matter of love, Because the portion of life’s joy Is the joy of Sisyphus, And the boulder of our suffering Is cast in the valley, And the boulder of our destiny, Is cast in the valley, And the boulder of our daily life, Is cast in the valley And our portion of life’s joy Is our slow and steady Approach to suffering, Our luminous perception Of our life and destiny, Our luminous, Luminous, Neglect Of our life and destiny.
III
Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . . My father came in, his head shaved, he didn’t curse, he didn’t show anger and didn’t request compensation for innocence. The black saliva of blind anguish strewn on the cell wall, he quietly gathered the gold chain of silence and silently departed, his heart bursting with yearning and a blood-choked cry. Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . . His eye on my eye, his lips on my lips, his heart on my heart, he stood, perplexed and dumbstruck. He didn’t complain, didn’t scold, and having left the sack of laughter at customs, he sprinkled his laughter’s last crumbs as dots of life and departed. And he didn’t hear the silent explosion of my wounded heart, and didn’t see, the heavy procession of trains over me, always without me on board. Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . . How many thousands of flowers and grass, how many thousands of cuttings and trees where did your hellish laughter shatter, break, blow away, from these dark and heavenly shores. Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . . What kind of harvest is this on Spring’s doorstep? What gale of mourning is rushing up, destroying the apricot tree of our awakening. Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .
IV
Now, when everyone is prepared for escape Now, when everyone walks around with their suitcases, Now that the centuries old staff of exile, with a kind of wizardry has turned into a magical wand, I, As winter’s only fuel, And the only ointment for nerves strained like a bow, tear apart Anahid’s portrait, far from aesthetics, tear apart the unsent love letters for Anahid, far from aesthetics, And many other canvases, far from aesthetics, And many other books, far from aesthetics, And many other papers, far from aesthetics, And next to the fireplace, blushing with shame, I sing the saddest song of winter about warmth. Everything is heading towards vanity, Everything is heading towards vanity. Countless steps descend from the sky And the tanks with the trail of blood tulips Head toward the east, And the soldiers, Shivering like leaves in the wind, With backpacks of death Head toward the east. And the doctors, Weighed down by Hippocrates’ heavy hat, Head toward the east. And painters, And poets, And scientists, And those who are volunteers, And those who haven’t had the chance to flee, With the trail of blood tulips Head towards the east, And the mania to kill, The fever to kill, With the will of the high ranking lords Becomes the only target.
V
I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . . I was flying in my dream while singing all the moments of my life, I have torn the cocoon of hopelessness to flying in the light of faith. Who, again, has cast a net on the blue? Who has nailed my wings to the cliff? I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . . I have, without pain, left my blooming flowerbeds so that I can make the flower growing in the rock’s crevice, the only thing to lean on . . . I don’t search for anything in the trash pile, but here, on my breast, the yellow flower, opened in the heart of the trash heap, glitters like a pin. I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . .
VI
Again, I bow to your grass To your every flower and stone, And “not-being” is never an issue, And the answer is as simple And as sharp As the path of the unswerving bullet From barrel to temple. Like fish caught in your net We are still fluttering, still flapping Don’t can us like sardines In coffins For the sake of shutting the jaw of the multi-mouthed earth. Yet another winter, Yet another spring, Yet another summer— And the ubiquitous falling of leaves And the caravan of failed days Like a dagger Cutting our existence to pieces Incessantly revolves Around circle of the four seasons. Oh, don’t take me, Don’t take me To the red-grassed pastures I don’t want to see the massacre of the tulips . . . And “not-being” is never an issue, And the answer is as simple And as sharp As the path of the unswerving bullet From barrel to temple . . .
Eduard Hakhverdyan is a poet, translator, and painter living in Armenia. His poem “Prodigal Son” provides a literary reflection on the harsh circumstances that plagued Armenia after its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. Often referred to as the “dark years,” the period between 1992 and 1995 is marked by the literal and symbolic darkness faced by Armenia due to fuel and food shortages caused by energy blockades, war, and a failing infrastructure. As translator, I was tasked to communicate the visceral quality of Hakhverdyan’s words and tone into English and capture the concurrent hopelessness and resiliency of its speaker. Similar to Hakhverdyan’s other works, “Prodigal Son” uses the personal, the literal, and the specific to effectively communicate a collective, and indeed universal, account of desperation and survival.
Lilit Keshishyan