By Avediq Isahakian
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
(Note: read the first surah here, and the third surah here)
And meandered that caravan through the rows of tall palm trees,
Raising dust–a caravan of dust, led quietly by a fire-breathing breeze.
“Move on, caravan, what have we left behind, that nostalgia would call us back?”
Thus spoke from his heart Abu Mahari, the distinguished bard.
“Have we, perchance, left back there spouse and friends, laws, rights and justice?
March on! Do not stop! We have left behind only chains, restraints, lies and avarice!
“And what is woman, anyway…? An always mean, spiteful spider, devious, faithless,
Who covets your bread, lying with kisses, and in your very lap, fondling someone else.
“Better brave stormy seas in a ramshackle boat, than rely on a woman’s oath;
She is pimp and harlot, covert inferno–Satan speaks through her lips and tongue, both.
“You have often wished on a far, distant star, the white, angel-winged lily so light,
As salve to your wounds–sustained as you reached for your delusions of a gilded life.
“You have longed for the song of the fountain beckoning you as the bright shores’ guest,
And you have dreamt of eternity’s dew and sweetly wept on its heavenly chest.
“But a woman’s love offers brine to your parched soul, so that you remain ever thirsty,
And in your red-hot craving–forever in thirst–you lick that woman’s victorious body.
“Oh, woman’s body, bacchanalian, serpentine–a truly satanic vessel of inequity,
The bitter carnal pleasures of which can forever eclipse a soul’s sun in total obscurity.
“I detest love, cruel as death, burning, covertly maiming and mutilating forever;
That poisoned wine, whose consumer is doomed to turn into slave or tyrannical master.
“I detest woman, essence of lusting, ever inseminating unbound slaughter,
Inexhaustible fountain of muck and mud, covering the earth with mounds of squalor.
“Once more, I detest love and woman, with her obsequious kisses and false morality–
I run away from her quagmire-mattress, cursing both her labor and her delivery.
“That dark, everlasting labor, that inundates venomous vipers’ writhing groupings,
Biting each other, tearing one another to bits, desecrating the stars with toxic droppings.
“A vagrant is he, who becomes a father, who from the serene bosom of nothingness
Lures the poor atom to sentience and dumps upon its head the inferno of lifelong stress.
“My father did sin against me, but I never, ever sinned against anyone.*
Let this, my last testament, be inscribed on my tombstone–if ever I do find a niche!
“As long as the deep blue sea keeps hugging the cerulean shores of the Hejaz,
I shall never turn back to woman, ever; I shall never miss her fake charisma and wiles.
“I shall gladly hug the needle sharp thorns of a wild prickly cactus and kiss them deep,
And rest my weary head on the warm bosom of burning rocks, and weep.”
And, with a soft murmur, the caravan engaged the road, twisting and weaving with grace,
Flowing ever forward, towards the golden distance in a serene, relaxed pace.
The bells seemed to wail as if shedding sonorous tears, note by note, drop by drop,
The caravan, as well, seemed to grieve gently, that which Mahari had loved and dropped.
And the flutes of the breezes softly caroled eastern love-songs, so sad and moving,
Lamenting the wounds of love, the demise of heartrending dreams, all beyond yearning,
And Abu Lala pondered somber, of his profound sorrow–endless, not unlike eternity,
Not unlike his meandering road, twisting and swaying, ever extending into infinity.
Woven into the boundless fabric of his path, night and day he suffered silently,
His searching gaze at unseen stars, his suffering soul full of bitter bits of memory.
And he never looked back at the trail he covered, no regrets for things left behind forever;
He answered no greeting–neither did he greet caravans encountered on the way, ever.
End of Second Surah…
*These words are carved on Mahari’s tombstone.
Tatul Sonentz-Papazian
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