I

Now, when
The city’s crooked and blemished face
Is coated in white anguish,
And in each fold of the brain
Exists a cruel mania of lethal saws. 

Now, when
The temple’s domes
Are fused with white mist,
And the unsuspended crosses
Blessing nothing
are bolted, motionless, in the air.

Now, when
In the gardens of paradise
The trees of our childhood dreams
Topple mercilessly,
And the dismal chimneys of painful moans
Quickly burn
The asteroids of our fragile souls
Reducing them to smoke and soot.

Now, when
The gray wolf’s bloody paws
Insatiably scratch
The roofless expanse of
A glorious history, 
And the rising tree’s branchless morality
Slowly rots
Waiting for no victims . . .

Now, when
The white anguish
Snows from the soul’s sky
Onto the dark streets of noxious days,
And phantom hands of terror
Paint black crosses on houses,
And the houses are encased in iron bars,
And the trees are encased in iron bars,
And slowly
With a cold, arachnoid silent patience,
With the insatiable mania for steel and metal,
Our souls become barricaded
And the weapon,
denying its bankrupt mission,
in the heights of vulgarity
stabs
the bloodless belly of a dying justice.

Now, when
In lethal darkness of the houses
The crippled, crazy,
gray masks
unflinchingly watching
through the shattered mirror,
Are tortured.

Now, when
The moan,
The cry,
The wail

having become an iceberg
clogged
in the strained vocal chords
Oh, don’t ask, don’t ask
How
Anchored like a sphynx
I became
PRODIGAL SON

II

The white roofs,
The white trees,
The white streets
Don’t witness winter.
This is an omen of torn masks,
This is an omen of a kind of payment,
This is the omen of a sweet joy,
This is the omen of self-discovery.

The torment of the white anguish
From the soul’s abyss,
Like the boulder of Sisyphus,
Rolls infinitely
From Spring to Winter,
From Winter to Spring,
And our portion of life’s joy,
Is the delight of the color of the mountain’s rock,

The unnamed flower’s luminous charm,
The flapping of the unknown bird’s wings
Planting grief in the garden of memories,
Is the charm of the word,
In glide of speech,
The liberation of the paint,
The delight of the color on the canvas,
And our portion of life’s joy
Is seeking truce with the bombs,
Is the panic
Of having lost the thread of our salvation
In the labyrinth of uncertainty.
In grandiosely making sense of
Our uncertain, meaningless days
In the noisy taverns
In the madness of the grapes
In the message of silence

It is the
Punctual
Provision of survival coupons
Every hour,
Every day,
Every year,
Every season
It is in plugging with our torn bodies
The open barrel
of Pandora’s
disasters,
and malice.

It is in the pleasure of coffee
In a dark corner
With the pipe of patience.
It is in illuminating, with the brightness of love,
heaven and hell,
Chaos, purgatory,
The Beginning and the End,
In becoming the wick in love’s lamp,
The blending of all matter
With the matter of love,

Because the portion of life’s joy
Is the joy of Sisyphus,
And the boulder of our suffering
Is cast in the valley,
And the boulder of our destiny,
Is cast in the valley,
And the boulder of our daily life,
Is cast in the valley
And our portion of life’s joy
Is our slow and steady
Approach to suffering,
Our luminous perception
Of our life and destiny,
Our luminous,
Luminous,
Neglect
Of our life and destiny.

III

Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .
My father came in, his head shaved, he didn’t curse, he didn’t show anger
and didn’t request compensation for innocence. The black saliva of blind anguish strewn on the cell wall, he quietly gathered the gold chain of silence and silently departed, his heart bursting with yearning and a blood-choked cry.
Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .
His eye on my eye, his lips on my lips, his heart on my heart, he stood, perplexed and dumbstruck. He didn’t complain, didn’t scold, and having left the sack of laughter at customs, he sprinkled his laughter’s last crumbs as dots of life and departed. And he didn’t hear the silent explosion of my wounded heart, and didn’t see, the heavy procession of trains over me, always without me on board.
Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .
How many thousands of flowers and grass, how many thousands of cuttings and trees where did your hellish laughter shatter, break, blow away, from these dark and heavenly shores.

Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .
What kind of harvest is this on Spring’s doorstep? What gale of mourning is rushing up, destroying the apricot tree of our awakening.
Oh, winds, vulgar and blind . . .

IV

Now, when everyone is prepared for escape
Now, when everyone walks around with their suitcases,
Now that the centuries old staff of exile, with a kind of wizardry has turned
into a magical wand,
I,
As winter’s only fuel,
And the only ointment for nerves
strained like a bow,
tear apart Anahid’s portrait, far from aesthetics,
tear apart the unsent love letters
for Anahid, far from aesthetics,
And many other canvases, far from aesthetics,
And many other books, far from aesthetics,
And many other papers, far from aesthetics,
And next to the fireplace, blushing with shame,
I sing the saddest song of winter
about warmth.

Everything is heading towards vanity,
Everything is heading towards vanity.

Countless steps descend from the sky
And the tanks with the trail of blood tulips
Head toward the east,
And the soldiers,
Shivering like leaves in the wind,
With backpacks of death
Head toward the east.
And the doctors,
Weighed down by Hippocrates’ heavy hat,
Head toward the east.
And painters,
And poets,
And scientists,
And those who are volunteers,
And those who haven’t had the chance to flee,
With the trail of blood tulips
Head towards the east,
And the mania to kill,
The fever to kill,
With the will of the high ranking lords
Becomes the only target.

V

I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . .
I was flying in my dream while singing all the moments of my life, I have torn the cocoon of hopelessness to flying in the light of faith. Who, again, has cast a net on the blue? Who has nailed my wings to the cliff?
I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . .
I have, without pain, left my blooming flowerbeds so that I can make the flower growing in the rock’s crevice, the only thing to lean on . . .
I don’t search for anything in the trash pile, but here, on my breast, the yellow flower, opened in the heart of the trash heap, glitters like a pin.
I don’t search for anything in the trash pile . . .

VI

Again, I bow to your grass
To your every flower and stone,
And “not-being” is never an issue,
And the answer is as simple
And as sharp
As the path of the unswerving bullet
From barrel to temple.

Like fish caught in your net
We are still fluttering, still flapping
Don’t can us like sardines
In coffins
For the sake of shutting the jaw of the multi-mouthed earth.

Yet another winter,
Yet another spring,
Yet another summer—
And the ubiquitous falling of leaves
And the caravan of failed days
Like a dagger
Cutting our existence to pieces
Incessantly revolves
Around circle of the four seasons.

Oh, don’t take me,
Don’t take me
To the red-grassed pastures
I don’t want to see the massacre of the tulips . . .
And “not-being” is never an issue,
And the answer is as simple
And as sharp
As the path of the unswerving bullet
From barrel to temple . . .


Eduard Hakhverdyan is a poet, translator, and painter living in Armenia. His poem “Prodigal Son” provides a literary reflection on the harsh circumstances that plagued Armenia after its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. Often referred to as the “dark years,” the period between 1992 and 1995 is marked by the literal and symbolic darkness faced by Armenia due to fuel and food shortages caused by energy blockades, war, and a failing infrastructure. As translator, I was tasked to communicate the visceral quality of Hakhverdyan’s words and tone into English and capture the concurrent hopelessness and resiliency of its speaker. Similar to Hakhverdyan’s other works, “Prodigal Son” uses the personal, the literal, and the specific to effectively communicate a collective, and indeed universal, account of desperation and survival.

Lilit Keshishyan