Swaying in the wind –
fields of my wheat slowly stir
with a deep shudder of awakening.
Along the emerald waists of the hill,
surge sweeping sees.
Swaying in the wind –
the fertile field flooding in a rage
threatens to drown the grazing lamb.
In the quaking bosom of the vale,
surge sweeping sees.
Swaying in the wind –
the billowing robes of surfing wheat
are torn and mended in shiny glitter.
In foaming shade and bright light,
surge sweeping sees.
Swaying in the wind –
under the husks, where rise the kernels,
the moon has poured its pitcher’s milk.
Thresher to village, and on to the mill,
surge sweeping seas.
Swaying in the wind –
the endless field floats in emeralds.
A lark sings perched on a swaying stalk,
while beneath it, crazed wheatfields
surge sweeping seas,
swaying in the wind.
———————– Daniel Varoujan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
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