Komitas

The curlew bird asked the turtle dove once,
“Why are you crying, blood tear after tear,
To shed and flow into the shallow creek?”
The turtle dove returned then to the curlew,
“The spring is gone, the autumn came,
The water dried up in the wells,
The grass and flowers have drooped,
The partridges’ song has died away.
I am to tremulously cry
Until my eyes are overflowed with blood,
What should I do about my nestlings?”

The curlew said, “No need to cry this fall,
For the kind spring is to return soon,
And dawn will break above the world,
And doors will open for the destitute,
And I will take you on my wings
To fly above high mountain peaks
To weave a nest among the stones,
To build a house in the bushes,
To cut a chimney toward chilly gusts,
And dig a clay bread oven in the caves,
And smoke it till it reaches clouds,
So we can cast our sorrows to the south wind.”

The autumn left, the spring arrived,
And water started dripping in the wells
To flow into the narrow brook.
The spring streams purled among the stones,
With yellow lilies in the mountains,
And violet blossoms in the gorge,
Red, green and many-colored flowers,
The flying birds above all fields,
A lamb’s voice summoning the ewe
High in the sky, where we will live.