It's already been a long nationwide life of beating us, father-grandfather-grandson, they are driving us away - to find our modest place, to stretch our legs to the size of our blanket, and many of us, military men and political scientists, historians and poets, artists and figures, have modestly found our places, we are laying down our sun.
Our national power, the power of the nation, each of us in our place, would strengthen each and everyone of us. Our nationwide weakness defames and distorts the progress of each and almost all of us.
And those of us who enter this world with the right and will of a son and master - an Isahakyan, a Charents, a Saryan and Khachatryan, a Tumanyan - are not defiled, are not distorted, are not broken, are not left incomplete.
Apparently, the supreme imperative of the spirit is as powerful a factor in our behavior and work as the reality that measures us and brings us to our earthly dimensions. Apparently, those of us who enter this world with the trust of a son and a master - in their other, inner kingdom, must have seen the image of their god, perceived his incoherent whisper, and it is this communion that gives them the confidence to enter our world. they have been to their Mecca, they come from their Mecca, they are messengers, they are full of the whispers of their god, there is no room for other wills in their structures.
Razmik Davoyan's entrance was sure, and his voice was sure. Such a confident entrance, such justifiable confidence, such maturity at once - our poetry was perhaps recorded several times in the past, but my generation did not. The warrior came from other areas, other times. true poets really come from another time and live in that super dense time of theirs.
Razmik Davoyan is sixty years old.
Razmik Davoyan's Requiem is forty years old. To write lines at the age of twenty, to fill pages, that from the moment of their birth they will travel with you, stinging and clanging, and in the hours of your fatigue, despair, and falls, you will not be ashamed of anything and no one in this world - only them, your clanging and clanging caravan, means that twenty-year-old youth really came from Mecca, really from the great heaven called God. He used to read his thick lines, his magnificent pages from the poet.
And according to Saroyan, true poets do not die once. If they die once, they die once and for all. Sixty-year-old Davoyan has died a couple of times. Of course, he will not be the same Warrior in his next, present-day resurrection, because throughout the homeland, in a way, across the entire continent from ourselves, and from our present, everything and everyone in yesterday is seen in a completely different, not so significant form and meaning - but even in our still peaceful retreat of yesterday, Razmik Davoyan was himself, Razmik Davoyan, who with the anxiety of the collapsing horizons of the future wove a song of his unheld hands and unvoiced lines. about.
Today, we are in faraway lands that none of us could have predicted, today we are living nightmares, he said, we are living in times, and in these times, the step of the new Davoyan will be a little ahead of us, as a stranger to us, on the shores he knows well.