I HAVE A WORD I FAIN WOULD SAY

By SAYAT NOVA

I have a word I fain would say—list patiently, Light of my Eyes;

A ceaseless longing fills my heart thy face to see, Light of my Eyes.

How have I sinned that thou shouldst thus offended be, Light of my Eyes?

The world is sated with the world,—I starve for thee, Light of my Eyes.

A sea of blood is in my heart, and tears forever fill my eyes;

No salve can heal my wound, the cure in my beloved’s presence lies.

All sick of love I lay, and watched her pathway with my longing eyes;

When I was dead she came; ’twas but the layer-out who heard her sighs.

Fair springtime now is fully here, the meadows gay with leaf and flower;

The hill-sides strewn with violets, the nightingale sent to the bower.

But why cannot his voice be heard? O thorn-tree, whence thy cruel power?

Thy branches pierced his heart; the rose was mourning left within her tower.

The scarlet poppy thought to tempt and lure the wandering nightingale,

When he was dreaming of the rose tied round with wisps of basil pale.

None pitied him—the rose was plucked by those who first came to the vale.

Alas, poor nightingale, the hedge has caught and pierced thy body frail!

God knows my life I count but nought; for thee I’d give it joyfully.

Come, let us taste of love’s delights, let him that listeth envious be.

No wish of thine shall be refused, so but thy face I radiant see.

If immortality thou’dst have, my love shall e’en bring that to thee.

And if I had a thousand woes no murmur from my lips would rise:

Thou art my Ruler, none beside; no sovereign own I otherwise.

Sayat Nova says, “Heartless one, death is not death for him who dies

So thou but mourn him with thy locks spread over him, Light of my Eyes.”

THE SONG OF THE PARTRIDGE

The sun has touched the mountain’s crest,

The partridge rises from her nest;

And down the hillside tripping fast,

Greets all the flowers as she goes past.

I breakfast on my roof at morn

When to my ear her voice is borne—

When swinging from the mountain side,

She chirps her song in all her pride.

Thy nest is dewed with summer showers;

Basil, narcissus, lotus flowers,

Enamel it, and breathe to thee

Perfumes of immortality.

Soft feathers all thy body deck,

Small is thy beak, and long thy neck.

Thy wings are worked with colours rare,

The dove is not so sweet and fair.

The little partridge flies aloft

Upon the branch, and warbles soft;

He cheers the world, and heals the smart

When seas of blood well in the heart.