The poet of the Turks swore to cut off my Armenian hand if I go to Karabakh. He takes an oath and his people honor him as a chieftain and his government decorates him with medals. And it is terrifying, because both he and they know well that Karabakh is the homeland of a sovereign people, yet they talk about landless and languageless territories, as a barbarian home.
This is the desolating view of the Turk. he looks and I'm not there. my house, my water and the mountain are there, I am not. I am not and I will not be, if I suddenly throw my hand to an Armenian and his Karabakh, there will be neither my living today nor my silent history, and their historian for the sake of good faith will transcribe the memory of his Angora tribe about our great nation and us. "Among others, famous Armenian people lived in these places, who left during the difficult years of the country."
This is how they wrote, this is how they will write.
And my ancestor in his darker times saw a chivalrous spirit in a more cannibalistic enemy, he said - "the chivalry of the Turk". And even though this speaks of the noble chivalry of my ancestor, because the world is what you are, but I professed the faith of my noble ancestor and I was sure that the chivalrous Turk would cut off my paw as an Armenian only in one case, if I did not extend my Armenian hand to my brother in Karabakh, he would spit on my shameless face if I turned away from my Karabakh, he would cross my legs if I turned away from my Caucasian homeland. let me run away. These are, at least, these bearers of the spirit of tolerance, or those who are still capable of bearing it, and those who considered the laws of reason and morality to be a language game and professed violence and conquest, and those whose mediation efforts shine with honesty, and those who see the dragon volumes of the fading orgas and sympathize with us, all of them, friends and enemies, if even a dry hill from my rocky mountain to the enemy wait, they will all stigmatize me as a traitor. and in no hiding place will I be able to hide from their scorn, because I will not be able to hide from myself.
Victory, only victory, will free us from the tyranny of the enemy, the outsiders, and ourselves. Victory is our mission to our past and future, and to all mankind. Defeat will turn our past into a lie and a sham, the delusion of poets. Defeat will turn our children into fatherless children, and will make us suffer their black curse. Defeat will make us wretched draggers at the door of justice, who may sometimes be sympathized with, but never respected. Every today is the new yesterday. From our victorious today, a victorious past will be born, our victorious today will open Armenia as a homeland of prosperous cities with clean mansions, it will set a limit to the kingdom of darkness, the joy of everyone and the enemy, and the enemy as well, because, I suppose, he also hates being fried in his hundred-year delusions of Sumgait.
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