Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian 


What troubled waters flowing down
the arid streets.
What a wonderfull ghost of death dashing
along each plane,
wincing at the frightened passengers,
knocking on the windows with skeletal fingers,
sitting on the wing,
flailing its legs. Pretending
it doesn’t hear the intensifying cry of the kids.
Oh Allen Ginsberg,
I mount your death, but more I mourn
the loss of my luggage that vanished away
in the labyrinth of the Kennedy Airport.
I still proceed with mourning
though I’m in Armenia now
and my shoes are strolling down the streets
of New Yourk City –
patting heels (oh what beautifull heels-brand-new!),
traveling the underground elevators.
Oh Allen Ginsberg, you passed away-oh Moloch!
                                                             Oh Moloch!
You didn’t live to see how I mourned your death,
how my eyes were raining tears,
I didn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe them
since my handkerchiefs-brand-new, tightly folded,
disappeared along with my bags-they may be
cleaning an American’s nose by now.
Flutter oh back flags,
the last Beatnik is gone-at the very wrong time,
on a bright Spring day, when I was investigating
all passers-by in the heart of
Washington D.C.-confident that none of them knew
I was leaving the next day
for ever.
* * *
I shaved and wrote a couple of lines.
Heaved a sigh watching
little birds fly away
right in the day’s eye.
Then I shaved again
and wrote a couple of lines,
heaved a sigh watching
the day return
without a single bird.
What happened to my day?
I resented watching
my lines fly away
heaving a sigh
right in the day’s eye.
Sometimes the rain lasts more than
(too long)
and I have to take pen in hand
to write dissonant lines
in that humid monotony-
to make some modifications
in a desperate try.
Sometimes the sun doesn’t warm up as possible
though Giordano Bruno is still being roasted
in a sparkler, whereas we had to shake the earth,
like a stopped watch;
maybe it would start working again.
Sometimes stars sparkle hither and thither,
while we can clearly see the trees,
with hands in their pockets,
stretched along the street. We can see clearly
how Giordano, with the globe wrapped in a
multicolored rag
under his arm, rushes to the watchmaker
with-it’s the very last hope.
Sometimes it’s autumn at times.
If I had my own wilderness
I would call in
all world’s lions
and say:
See how much sand
I have here in my desert
and how much freedom.
I could show them the sun
and say this too is ours.
I would say:
No one here can tell you
that you are wolves or shave off
your manes.
I would say:
See and feel the silence
it's all yours
tear it if you want
with a silver roar!
And then, at night,
in secret,
each one of you can
join me writing poems
about caged.


FOR SALE – was written, in big tearful letters,
                                   on a building gate.
FOR SALE – was written, in small exhausted
                                   letters, on a car trunk.
FOR SALE – was written on a kiosk door.
FOR SALE – was written on a drug store
FOR SALE – was written on a factory wall.
FOR SALE – was written on trees in the woodland,
            as well as on bushes and sporadic mushrooms.
FOR SALE – was written on the cirrus and the
                                   status, the sun and the stars.
FOR SALE – was written on rivers and lakes,
                        gorges and mountains, cats and dogs.
SOLD OUT – was written, in invisible clandestine
            letters, on an enormous signboard
                                   of the government building.

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