MY SWEET ARMENIA’S SUN-FLAVORED WORD My sweet Armenia’s sun-flavored word that always chimes and rings-I love; Our ancient lyre’s melody, its wretched weeping strings-I love; The fragrance of the blood-like flowers, the way the fiery roses smell; The graceful dance of Nayirian girls, their sweet angelic wings-I love. I love our heavens overcast, our waters pure, our lakes so bright; The summer sun, the dragon-voiced snowstorms in a wintry night; The black-walled huts lost in the dark, their unfriendly cheerless sight; The rock-hard stones of ancient cities, their mysterious pride-I love. Wherever I am I can’t forget our mournful tunes and melodies, Our steel-lettered sacred books turned into silent prayers and pleas; However sharp they pierce my heart, however deep my wounds may bleed, Even though orphaned and blood-bright, my sweet Armenia-bride-I love. There is no other pleasing tale or story for my longing heart; The haloed foreheads of Narek* , Kouchak** - there is no higher art; There is no summit as snow-white as that of lofty Ararat; Like a distant path to glory-that mount, my timeless guide-I love!
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