To all;
A bit late on my reply to this thread but relevant still the same:
Siamonto was a poet executed in this genocide and he wrote the following poem
entitled, "Grief"
You, stranger soul-mate,
who leaves behind the road of joy,
listen to me.
I know your innocent feet
still wet with the blood of yours.
F oreign hands have come and yanked out
the sublime rose of freedom,
which finally bloomed from the pains of your race.
Let its devine scent intoxicate everyone,
Let everyone-those faraway, your neighbor, the ungrateful,
come and burn incense
before the Goddess of Justice
that you carved from stone with your hammer.
Proud sowers, let others reap with your scythes
the wheat that ripens in the gold earth you ploughed.
Because if you are chased down by raw Evil,
don't forget that you are born
to bring forth the fruitful Good.
Walk down the avenues of merriment,
and don't let the happy ones see in your eyes
that image of corpse and ash.
Spare the passerby, whether a good man or a criminal.
Because Armenian pain
rises up in the visage of the eyes.
As you walk through the cross-road of merriment,
don't let a speck of gladness or a tear
stain grief's majesty.
Becasue for the vanquished tears are cowardly
and for the victors, the smile is frivolous, a wrinkle.
Armenian woman, with veils darkening you like death.
You, young man with native anguish
running down your face,
walk down the roads without rage or hate
and exclaim: what a bright day,
what a sarcastic grave-digger. . .
what a mob, what dances, what joy
and what feasts everywhere. . .
Our red shrouds are victory flags.
The bones of our pure brothers are flutes. . .
with them others are making strange music.
But don't shudder unknown sisiter,
or brother of fate.
As you study the stars
take heart, go on.
The laws of life stays the same. . .
human beings can't understand each other.
And this evening before sunset
all of you will go back to your houses,
whether they are mud or marble,
and calmly close the treacherous
shutters of your windows.
Shut them from the wicked Capital,
shut them to the face of humanity,
and to the face of god. . .
Even the lamp on your table
will be extinguished
by the whispers of your clear soul.
translated by Peter Balakian and Nevart Yaghlian
An amazing poem that speaks to how it is impossible to ever really KNOW
another person!
eric
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