The ancient viper laments. I turned my face to the sky, I hit my knees to the ground, I knelt down and gave birth to a son, in the hot rocks far away, the tiger curled up, curled up, knelt down and gave birth to a cub. on my chest I taught my son to look and not blink his eyes with a song, the tiger in the hot rocks taught his cub to look and not to look at the boy, my son armed himself and went hunting, the cub stood in the hot rocks far away, saved himself and went hunting, on the narrow ridge they came to rebuke, my son looked at the cub and the cub looked at my son. my son's bow snapped, my son's arrow stung in the hot rocks, but my son would not defeat the tiger's son with his bow and arrow with his life; Koryun looked, saved himself and begged, but he was not going to defeat my son with his brave life, the tiger's son and my son darkened each other's red sun in the hot rocks far away, the tiger's son and my son darkened their mother's hot sun. What should I do now, he says, let me get up and take a long journey, go find Koryun's mother and let us both lament the lamentation of our green braves.
And here I am, and here we are - we don't have to turn our faces away, put our foot on the path of search. lazy, lazy, noble Armenians from all time, the signposts of our will to the people and one who fought together, the one who opened the field of victory and joy in our souls and in front of us, our new Nzhdeh, who was searched for decades and found in our own blood and bile, we killed ourselves.
That's how we killed.
We let the green lawn grow in the recesses of our shallow thoughts and our heartless souls to the owner of the square of hope and trust, because the square of hope and trust will not be among us, we are the square of lamentations and complaints, the hope of a sure future will be in other capitals, for example Moscow, for example America, for example Paris, even Istanbul and Tizbon. In our time, the soldier and commander will not be of our flesh and blood, the soldier and commander will be Saint Gevorg riding the white horse passing through the sky and not Vazgen Sargsyan.
We killed and we will kill again, and the darkness of our sunless mind, our fearless spirit will absorb the new risers as well, until we empower our brother to see us as a king and general, and us, his subjects and soldiers, to see this land as our homeland.
We killed and today we are standing in front of those of our bright and optimistic ancestors who loved us, who brought us, after this catastrophe of our spirit and mind, I wonder if they would love us again, would they bring us again? I wonder if Saroyan, far from his Fresno, would come to this country again with his open heart, with the urge not to be afraid of ourselves and others, to love ourselves and others. Would Saryan see us and this country the way he saw it? Would Tamanyan raise this city for this resident of ours? And will our grandchildren in the distant future love us, will they love us? We ourselves handed over the shame of the fall of Karsaberd to a non-Armenian military commander, we put a monster not of our nation at the head of other shames, and with our lazy mind we think that both our savior and the enemy are somewhere far away from us.
Now, finally, we were able to see that we are both contemporary and active participants in our disasters, and we are not loved by ourselves.