My
field is golden…
Just
like flames,
The
wheat’s ablaze,
Yet
never burns.
My
field is golden…
The
sky in flames,
The
soil trodden
Beneath
the stems.
My
field is golden…
Sheaves
in rows of four,
Clad in sunshine
--
Four
files of amber.
My
field is golden…
Bee,
wasp, hornets
Whiz
through the awns
Like
lightning bolts.
My
field is golden…
Oft,
a fleet canary
Soares,
wind driven,
From
the blond sea…
Lullaby,
golden field,
Let
me come harvest,
My
full-grown field
With
a silver scythe.
Daniel Varoujan
Translated
by Tatul Sonentz
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