*
Cheered by development strategies,
concerned over inflation’s increase
in evening jam through blaring horns
this head of mine is heading home.
On this chilly October morning, this head of mine,
that suffers from migraine every other day,
with its signs of baldness DNA
is heading home.
With its Neanderthalian cheekbones and pupils of a Homo Sapiens,
a jaw of a master and extreme pertinence
with its dental prosthesis, this head of mine
that is sleepy still dreamless
in the last seat of the bus
is heading home.
Through holiday sales of sausages and tiles,
amidst warnings, reminders, instructions and calls
following Baghramyan-Mashtots-Amiryan-Tigran Mets –Artsakh streets,
this creative head of mine never wanders from the way that leads.
Still with an immature mind, despite the presence of documents,
more lost than kept, this average head of mine,
which I’ve been taking home for 3 million years
halfway stops,
when this idea pops
of a peach
shrouded in freezing mountain mist
sun-kissed,
lost in milky and thick film
hidden in wilting branches of a tree
late in ripening.
A peach
sweet and blushing
of honey tasting
beneath its fuzz.
a peach the harvesters failed to notice
that has never been the focus
of any song.
Translated by Lilit Bekaryan
