Written by Hovhannes Shiraz
Translated from Armenian by Daniel Janoyan
Glendale, California, March 4, 2000

In my dreams my door was knocked at,
"Who is it?" I asked from inside.
Some elderly lady from the outside
Answered and said, "I'd sacrifice myself for you."

"I've come to ask for a piece of bread as charity
I'm a poor orphan woman with no one to support me."
At this point I opened my door immediately,
Only to find a miracle; it was my deceased mother indeed!

I was shocked but fell into her arms;
And my mother said, "It's me, it's me,
I've come to try you and to check on you.
I hope life hasn't changed your spirit and also you?!"

I came in the form of a beggar
So that the whole world can be a witness
To see if your conscience, my dear son,
If your conscience also died along with me?!"

In my dreams this time I saw my Dad
Who was revealed to me just like my Mom.
With full of fear and also joy, I fell into his arms
While he came out of his grave and began to caress me.

We wept in bitterness and also sweetly;
My Dad looked around,
Smiled to Mount Aragats* tenderly
And then said, "My son is alive indeed!"

But when my elderly father looked at Mount Ararat*,
He looked at me in suspicion,
"In what way can you call yourself my son
When our home is now left to be half empty?"

My Dad once again died due to sorrow and misery
And said to me, "My son, if you want me
And my soul to rest in peace,
Don't let my home be half empty...!"

* Mount Aragats and Mount Ararat are looked upon as symbols of inspiration to Armenians all over the world. Many poems, literary works, paintings and musical compositions have been devoted to these sacred mountains.

Written by Hovannes Shiraz
Translated by Daniel Janoyan
Glendale, April 2, 2008

My little poor mother,
My very simple mother.
My mother is like a lamp within the sun
In this motherly universe of ours.

But under the solar light,
When pains are brought upon me
The depth of my gloomy heart
Is spread by that very same feeble light.

My little poor mother,
My very simple mother.
My mother is like a fire within my heart,
A warm sun by day and night.

*****

My mother took my little child
Into her lap and in a glimpse
Winter and spring
Seemed to caress one another.

That is the reason why
No matter how long
This invaluable universe lives
It is still a child indeed …..

Written by Hovannes Shiraz
Translated by Daniel Janoyan
Glendale, April 2, 2008

It is said as though into a blazing fire
The heart of a young stubborn child was thrown to burn.
It is also said the ashes of that body burned
Was removed from the fires and delivered to the mother.

The mother kept weeping over the ashes
And when her tears dropped into the ashes,
Her child suddenly revived and came to life.

Written by Hovannes Shiraz
Translated from Armenian by Daniel Janoyan
Glendale, April 2, 2008

My mother is our aspirations indeed,
She is our home chapel indeed.
My mother is our cradle
Our family backbone is my mother.
My mother is like a father as well as a mother,
She is our sole mistress.
My mother is the homeless of our home
Our eagle nest is our mother.
Our family maid is my mother,
As well as the queen of our family.
My mother is insoluble,
Yet she is our remedy and the solution.
My mother is our family spring
And also our thirsty sister.
My mother is our home sleepless person,
And yet she is our sweet sleep indeed.
My mother is our bread
Our family Goddess is my mother indeed.