Nina Gabrielian
Tortoise
Where the scorched quietness is swathed
in the sun’s violet rays,
it lies, unmoving, like a trace
of neolithic days.
And on its broad armour plates
the sun scatters its hot dust.
Like someone’s lonely breath appears
black, in white sands, one bush.
In this place once children played,
here once existence flowered . . .
And the vertebrae of centuries crunch
beneath its heavy tread.
in the sun’s violet rays,
it lies, unmoving, like a trace
of neolithic days.
And on its broad armour plates
the sun scatters its hot dust.
Like someone’s lonely breath appears
black, in white sands, one bush.
In this place once children played,
here once existence flowered . . .
And the vertebrae of centuries crunch
beneath its heavy tread.
Translated by Peter France
Page(s) 58
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