Alvard Petrosian - URBAN FOLKLORE

With no one

to welcome it,

springtime

comes in vain.

What does

its arrival mean?

No one wants

to till any more!

With poets and

bards half frozen

and lovers now

over the hill,

no one is left

to sing its songs,

spring shows up

for no purpose.

Time, they say,

is made of gold,

of wicked curse

and damnation.

Arvard Petrosian

translated by Tatul Sonentz

Alvard Petrosyan - MIRROR

That which you reflected in full,
You have now cast off in shards,
A somber enticement, mirror,
Hard to find via shattered roads.

As I smash your smug, shiny face,
And leave you a blank vacant frame,
Your image, now same as my own,
Robs your very soul of its name.

Your vacuous, chattering babble,
And your barren, paltry insight -
A window with no inherent view –
Are hollow retorts to my plight.

We now stay put alone, face to face,
Shattered, unadorned, unsightly,
In a wispy, fading, stillborn dream,
An absent, long forgotten melody.


Alvard Petrosyan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz