I hood my eyes against the savage light …
Why am I here, and what do I want here?
Why do these ruins drag me to this place
with the mortal grief of blackened stone?
Am I the keeper of the dead?
I mutter
Cain-like:
“Am I their keeper?”
Graveyard grass crawls over stone,
strong in its underground knowledge.
The fortress is immobile
in the haze of noon.
Dead emperors gaze at me
as if their underground labor
had built this world, this city.
Unbeing
longs so to be incarnate,
to raise altars to itself.
Sculptors of unbeing, emperors
and warriors,
whisper to me:
“Look, here it is,
the capital of our realm.”
Midday sleep, the veil of sleepy maya,
hides the black earth from my eyes.
Grasses whisper,
rustling, dry,
and it seems I am not I …
On the town of the dead
heaven rains its flame,
and immobile—straight in my eyes—
a grasshopper stares from a stone
with its fearful faceted gaze.
And pinned to the wall
by premature horror,
I cannot tear myself
from its bulging mica stare,
from the stare of alterity.
Above me hangs the dry firmament of the Urarts.
Immortal it floats,
the ancient city,
like a gigantic ark
with its weighty cargo
down the dry bed of underground rivers.
Translated by Peter France