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The Literary Groong - 02/21/2004

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	By Vahan Tekeyan
	Translated by Khatchig Mouradian

	It is raining, son, the autumn is wet,
	Just like the damp eyes of poor beguiled love,
	Go and shut the door, close the window too
	Then come to my side, let's sit together

	In silence supreme. It is raining, son,
	Does it sometimes rain in your soul as well?
	Does your heart get cold? And do you shiver
	When you think about the bright, bygone sun

	At one of the blocked doors of destiny?
	Yet you weep, my son. All of a sudden,
	I see heavy tears falling from your eyes.

	Weep irretrievable tears of innocence,
	Weep without knowing, my poor unwise son
	You poor victim of life, weep so that you grow.

Khatchig Mouradian has a B.S. in Biology and currently is a graduate
student in Clinical Psychology. He has been writing poetry from an
early age and around two dozens of his poems (in Armenian) have been
published in a Armenian newspapers and magazines (Aztag, Zartonk, and
Ardziv). He is also a journalist with his columns and articles
appearing regularly in "Aztag" daily and "Marzig" monthly.

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