I love the sun-baked taste of Armenian words,
the lilt of ancient lutes in sweet laments
our blood-red fragrant roses bending
as in Nayiran dances, danced still by our girls.
I love the deep night sky, our lakes of light,
the winter winds that howl like dragons fire.
The meanest huts with blackened walls are dear to me-
each of the thousand year old city stones.
Wherever I go, I take our mournful music,
our steel forged letters turned to prayers.
However sharp my wounds or drained of blood,
or orphaned- my yearning heart turns there with love.
There is no brow, no mind, like Narek's Koutch.
No mountain peak like Ararat's,
Search the world, there is no crest as white, so holy.
So like an unreached road to glory - Massis mountain that I love.
