“There’s a mountain lake near Dilijan” Denis Brandani

[…] There’s a mountain lake near Dilijan. The water is changing its colour with every breath of the wind. The Armenians call it the Sea and bathe in its cool iridescence until December. This morning, an old woman in black grazes her sheep in the cemetery of Noraduz, on the higher shore of the lake. Around her there’s a desert scattered with khachkar. Sepulchral stones and sheep in the hum of the dead. A barefoot peasant gives me the lavash, just cooked in a black stone in the shape of a cross, without stopping the silence. I run away like a thief, on foot on the uneven cobbles for miles up to the monastery of Haghartsin. The oak doors, covered with moss, are shot in perpetual time. I sit down to the ground near the yellow carrion of a swan, while the iron cross drips rust on the sun up. I am cold and have my feet like dead. My heart could burst in my chest just now and I could never feel anything of what the people of this land felt. I wish to pray, I am only able to cry. […]

Pubblicità