Sorry Maro.
It's a pity that seniors are missing from our heads. Pity the gorgeous Hamon, Pity the sober and brave Vahagn, Pity the bright-souled Hrach, Pity Seron, Pity Emin, and Pity Maro, Pity Maro, mother Maro, Pity, who cut an eagle on my cubs, who, like Manush's sister in the fairy tale, went on her way holding the hand of her orphaned brother in the old, fairy tale, times of our mothers, and the girl's step would always be ahead of her brother's on that path of fairy life, before danger she would spread her wings over her brother, because the girl was herself, because she was not a girl, she was a mother, because it was defined that way.
In the poet's and girl's soul, it was invented that he and they, he and we are not made of clay, but of the stardust of the sky. that girl and poet created from stardust could deny the clay between herself and us and saw the earthly her and our path as heavenly, and the step was always a little ahead of us, the wings of a sister, a girl, a black-faced girl spread over us before danger and even before danger, even if we were not orphans and brothers, even if we were ten times stronger than her, if we were not made of stardust at all, but we were kneaded by heavy and thick unyielding clay.
Sorry Maro. At the head of today's march of our earthlings thirsty for tolerance and love, it was not those tired wings that should have folded, it was not that brave and brave nature that was supposed to fade in our march.
And in each and every one of us, as long as we exist, may that girl from faraway roads live, be alarmed and become a hero, who went on her way holding her brother's hand, because we are all brothers, we all want the protection of his wings.