Poems by Eduard Harents

***
Your the only Where
is your name’s sadness,
from which you are made:
cheerfully wet,
around your splendid suburb
of neglected,- to the flower
from the death lane։
the only traveller –
regarding you.

You are coming near, you
don’t see him.
He guesses you from
the fever,
that you endeavor your
light’s dust
from his pistil to…

But you don’t recognize him,
why?
Recognize the «why»!

(Translated from Armenian by Ani Hakobyan)

***
After so much pious,
loveless nights,
I have no idea from which
muscle of time,
but storms are ringing from myself
apparently sweeping away all my
morns, which
remained punched like that
up till now
like the shoes
of a gold medalist student…

Interesting:
that much rich, so sonorous,
to which gates
will my evening – one day –
tinkle?

***
I know, I will wake up someday
from the mystical dinner,
will wear my father’s
damaged footsteps
as little pockets
filled with immeasurable love…
Can my days – I wonder –
scale that much unbearable
lightness?

(Translated from Armenian by Harout Vartanian)

***
In all my places of absence
I sow my reticence
from you…

Yet who punctuated
among the scents of my word?

Absolute scars,
inside my forehead of a vigil dream…

Whenever you wish to translate
my bloods,
collect Job’s stones
from my poems…

Those are secret cells
of your Son’s
round-scripted sorrow…

(Translated from Armenian by Anna Talalyan)

***
The day’s like orange bites
as the hips of a lady…

Little slum dogs parched out
will die
leaking their own veins.

Angel’s pillow will get sweated
under the skin of their own dream.

Out of a calyx of a broken word
Light bubbles
will toll…

(Translated from Armenian by Maneh Kocharyan)