Mushegh Galshoyan was a long-awaited person in our public, political, artistic square, he was the one we were waiting for, and his untimely loss was truly a loss for our national and all-Soviet square.
The need for Axel, who is smart, principled, intelligent, interrupted in the Urals today, the rocky, dry, cruel land that gives so much stone that it gives half of its territory to keep it in the oven to give life to the bread, and where the cattle already gnaw the roots in June, the decaying, abandoned village, which marked a great collapse and which became the imminent Artsakh catastrophe, the history that is our desecration behind the lens distorting the faces and events of yesterday and standing the heir of the distorted attitude in our today's reality, the disenfranchised, anti-national, immoral, uncitizen citizen of the country, who built his villages and cities to be destroyed and who kept his foot on the run, were waiting for their prosecutor and lawyer, their witness and historian, the one who will tell us about them in their own language.
He came and was heard and loved.
The Miro of the valley and the clouds of the Maruta mountain, flowering stones and Bovtu, the publication of the Ranchparner's call with a glorious conclusion and as the finale itself, the speech of the deputy of the political council - an accusation and a message.
There must be a Turk, everyone in the world has their Turk, you look at yourself.
There will be an earthquake - don't build your house to collapse.
There are no free nations, in your captivity you should not be a slave and what you build in your country should not be slave labor, you should be a ruler over your master with your work.
He came to regenerate us morally and to entrust arms and homeland to our moral presence alone.
He went and grieved. Really expected, really lucky man.