Vardan Hakobyan


Vardan Hakobyan






On the Other Side of Horizon




The words told by silence are deeper than

when you try to speak: the sadness, the flower

and the sky always whisper in my ear.


No one speaks while kissing:

no matter how far are the stars, they’re mine.


No one speaks while creating:

the mind is freedom.


No one speaks while shooting:

the torment is sincerity.


The dreams live in unachievable horizon,

and when I want to kiss your eyes – I just kiss

the horizon… and love blossoms on the other side of

silence, word and horizon.


2.The Angels


When I hug you

I close my eyes for to see you better:

the light deceives.


My window was open at night and

all the garden flowers (except a little flower

which loves me) have broken into the house

with rain, moon and stars.


When I woke up

the angles were talking about the dawn joyously

on the blue wing of lilac.


It has been much easier for my forefather,

and the kiss, like the apple of immortality,

has been ripening only in the darkness of cave,

where there were only inside sky and stars.


I was following the passage by my glance: Cranes,

isn’t it early?


While kissing you I turn off the light, for it won’t

take the kisses.

The light steals the eyes from eyes.


Up to the brooks and rocks – the highest clouds come true,

because there are unknown violets in the gorges.


And the springtime cool is as pleasant as it seems that

the hems of your nightdress are slapping me.


My fingers slide over your violet body –

like they slowly pull the nighttime clouds,

and suddenly thousands of, millions of, milliards of stars,

blossom in the universe… But who is the counter?


And love blossoms on the other side of

silence, word and horizon.


3. Flower of Spirit


When Shamiram[1] walks, the flowers blossom

on her arms, hands, pelvises and… everywhere.

They say there’s a bird that quenches her thirst

by the drops of rain at lightning time. That bird

lives among the sufferers for love.


Permanent navigation of torment – this is the soul.

A flower out of greenhouse – this is the love.

– Alas!


– Every day a flower gets faded.

–But the scent… the scent is permanent – this is the soul.

And the thorn of love is a flower of spirit,

and it’s a memory – this is the love.


I went deep into the night up to the door of obscure

and left a long stem flower on its handle

like a word, which will never be told…


And love blossoms on the other side of

silence, word and horizon.




[1] Shamiram – the wife of Ninos, the king of Assyrians (Armenian Mythology)




Absent Voices


My way (or I) has seen more lightening

than the real light. My chain isn’t

built by rains, but by voices –

incompatible often and various,

let’s say stone, love, bird, cloud,

flower, blood, etc…

Who orders the night?


Even my old friends – the stars

whom I was talking among the naïve

nights of my love, seem to be undecipherable

signs in a strange land… The thorn is anti-rose

and, at the same time, sponsor of the smell.

During all my life I investigate the refusal.


The distance is armenian thing, surely,

it’s a national conception. In undiscovered planets

my blood corpuscles sometimes have a talk

with my compatriots –

loving one another, without concord.

And Paolo Coelho talks to me

in an out of words language.


The far gets mature in the steps. Words are

the apostles of light. By your untold word

I could reach further, than by simple steps

(I master this ways). Who’s that one, standing at our

rosehip plant? And the non-golden cock on his shoulder

“thinks ceaselessly, that the day is just rising”.


I (or my way) have seen more lightening

than the real light. That what I touch(stone,

plant, melody) jingles by my voice, inviting

my soul to the unoccupied valleys… I’m not

only me. Three birds were singing on the roadside

tree, though one of them wasn’t singing…







had been the first feeling that Adam felt

since the very moment of his birth.


Eve has been born from Loneliness.

The Loneliness is Eve’s mother.






The far opens its petals

and the dream gets down there.


I give my spirit to violets

and the stones start to smell.


the way is a start at every second:

the continuity is incomplete.


I search everyone,

and the light suggests a sky

to the poplar.


The splits of the hand

of my ploughman Granddad

mourn in my palm.


The flowers grow only there

where the heart has pain.


Every step – bringing me to you –

moves me away from you

with thousands of miles.


The longest distance is

from the wing – up to the heart

when the dove doesn’t fly.


A flower opens its petals

and the far becomes a birthplace.



© Vardan Hakobyan, translated by Tatevik Khurshudyan











Vardan Hakobyan was born in 1948 in the Republic of Nagorni Karabakh. He is the author of more than forty-five poetic and scientific collections. His books were printed in Russian, English, French, Georgian and other languages. His poetry collection of “It is eighty one p.m.” was awarded Armenian State Prize in 2010. He is a laureate of a number of literary prizes. He is a Doctor of Philology, professor. Vardan Hakobyan is the president of Writers Association Board of Artsakh, the rector of Stepanakert “Grigor Narekatsi University”. He is honorable cultural worker of Armenia.


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