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Hrachya Sarukhan, from Six Armenian Poets

And Since...

It is a vain thing
To leave rings of smoke in the café.
The rusty bread knife thrown on the pavement
Is a vain thing.
The coins lost by the poet
Aren’t worth a penny
To the blind beggar.
The ravings of the dries up wheat heads
Are vain...

There will always be
Stars in the sky,
The moonlight will kiss
The lips of the snow.
And since
The mute’s art of letters shall never be deciphered,
A vain war,
Will live its
Usual course.