I was going to be the last person to say that there was a great disaster in the life of the Armenian people, even in the life of the Armenian folk art. yes, we are leaving a great and beautiful person to the ground, but this is one of the uniquely lucky losses of all times for us Armenians, if the loss can certainly be called lucky. he lived long, he was prolific, he wrote even these days, he didn't miss a word, he didn't get deformed due to the fear of old age, which is the revealer of defects, his body, surrounded by his soul, was not touched by hostile, alien and foreign hands - he came to land on the shoulders of his sons, his people, to pass to the herd of his own.
This is the sunset of a well-deserved patriarch, which many of our unfortunates have deserved, but few have.
My mourning is for my life and our life tomorrow. in a moment of oblivion, we will pick up the receiver, and his voice will not be in the phone. We will put a bread pan under any apricot tree, and its place will be empty on the head of the tablecloth. on some unexpected occasion, we will all need each other very much, but we will never find each other, because we will find its doors closed; Instinctively, one sunset we will turn our eyes to its window and realize that that building is no longer ours, behind those windows its bright front does not contemplate, suffer, suffer, doubt, confirm.
This is how your own country leaves you, this is how you become a foreigner in your own homeland. And that's why the old saying urges. keep and protect your parents, so that the country that created you may long be yours, you may be his for a long time.
It would be good if we were believers and believed in the miracle of resurrection, when the Lord touches the confused heads of the followers in the twilight. "Guys... what happened to you? Why are you confused?"
And that's exactly how it will be. our grateful adoration of our homeland, our deep-rooted consciousness of national dignity, our zeal for the difficult craft of writing, our immense love for the peasant Armenian man, who at the same time personified a prince and a farmer, and man in general, our constant interest in those charming bavils that measure and measure all the leaves of the native land and gather together all the aromas and the whispers, all the anxieties and upheavals that are under the life-giving breath of God, that love of ours will revive him, and our great one will appear on the way of our march.
If it doesn't happen like that, if it doesn't appear as a writer, at least only as a writer, on the confused head of our community, it will mean either our march is wrong or he was not great.
But he left too much, so that what he left on this earth could not come together, materialize and repeat his living image. He will appear and ask the question of his ancestor. "Guys... why are you confused and lost?"
We are confused and lost, because there is no longer the presence of bread, there is no longer the presence of fire that people used to gather around, there is no longer his life-giving word and there is no longer his silence, which we filled with our best abilities, restraining, suppressing, not letting the small scream inside us raise its head.
But his hour was no better than our evil and poor hour. "You lived in a cruel age, that when the occasion came to cry, you closed your mouth with your own hand, and swallowed your sobs." With his every moment and every word, he warmed his time, humanized his environment. He gave more than he could, endured more than he could, forgave-loved-patiently more than his body was capable of, suffered, exhausted, exhausted his poor body and left more than he could in this house of our Armenians, because he was born a lord and a father. He did not become a slave and he did not become a rebel, he did not become a thief and he did not become a robber, because he was born a creator and became a creator from himself, because the father cannot rob his house and the father cannot rebel - against whom, against the walls of his house?
We are the nation of Khorenatsi, yes. We are the people of Jesus, yes. We are the sons of golden Armenian, yes. But there are no eternal glories - glories have to be shed every day. Gods want to be renewed every day. There are no nations that are finished once and for all - the nation wants to be renewed and strengthened every day. Even the language is not eternal - it requires toil, suffer, ring, ring every day, with everyone who comes.
Before Sahyan, Armenian was not restricted - he spoke, and our entire history and today spoke with the language. God took the form of the patriarch of our clans and quietly settled in our headquarters as a permanent spirit of care and work, honesty and nobility. His Armenian arched like a rainbow and invited all of us to the world of Armenian life wherever we were.
He was the reformer of his time, and his image at the head of our procession will be that.