
Dear homeland,
As you bleed from your open wounds
And scream the melody of pain,
I can’t help but notice
The red flowers of Saryan in the rivers of your blood
And the voice of Komitas in the sharpness of your scream.
In the blood cells of your skin
I see the paintbrush of Saryan
Painting your valleys and hills,
Painting your losses and dreams
With a hue of fiery red,
With a teardrop on his hand,
Trying to put the flowers back
In the broken vase of his,
Yet losing them all again
To the rivers and the hills.
But the flowers don’t drown;
They stay afloat in murky flows,
They stay alive in highs and lows,
Flowing, fighting, dancing
To the melody of pain,
Flowing, fighting, blooming
To the memory of land.
The pain of the land,
The land of pain
Keeps the flowers afloat,
Keeps the flowers alive,
And moving incessantly
Into the direction where
Saryan’s red is again the source of life
And not the outcome of death,
And where the Armenian highlands
Are the only vase in which
Those flowers fit correctly —
The vase shattered yet repaired,
The vase once lost yet regained.
In the blood rivers of death
I see bloomings of new life,
And a melody alive
Of freedom and liberty,
Of cleanness and harmony,
In the voice of Komitas
In the echoes of the past,
Of a once-great, long-cherished homeland
Of a once-great, long-cherished highland
Which is to be again,
Which is to rise anew,
And where the flowers will bloom
In the colors of their home.
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