Breaking down cultural barriers
Transposer une culture dans une autre par delà les barrières culturelles

Monday, 13 June 2011

Daniel Varoujan - MIDDAY

This is that hour when labor, lax on the threshing floor,
gasps under the sun.
Each reaper naps.
In a distant cave,
the confined cool breeze dies sobbing.

Squeezed within a net of fire, the heart of that hiatus
hardly hits a beat.
In irridescent silence,
what dreams, what sighs
arise from reeds cut down in early sunrise…

Forests sleep on the murky sides of the mountain
beneath silver-woven veils.
In the blue, a lonesome,
milky cloud proceeds
leaving shreds of soft wool at the summit of the rock.

The earth receives the light’s bloody spear
in its split heart.
There, a fountain sobs
snivelling near a tree,
 unwilling to expire near the flower it watered.

Water buffalos, free of their yokes, lie down in the swamp,
strings of silver saliva
hanging from their mouths.
The carts beyond, by the heap
of wheat sheaves, raising their huge snouts, stare at the void.

This is that hour, O, my soul, when lonesome as a cricket,
you must remain on the heights
of spotless serenity,
drunk with your own song,
as the sun with its light -- all alone with its own light.


Daniel Varoujan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

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