Sayat Nova

Sayat-Nova é o nome dado ao Poeta Arménio Harutyun Sayatyan, que viveu no Sec.XVIII, e era também conhecido como King of Songs.
Poeta, Músico e Cantor, para além de Diplomata, perdeu este último lugar quando se apaixonou pela filha do Rei.
A partir daí, tornou-se trovador itinerante sendo-lhe atribuídas mais de 220 canções.
Em 1968, o filme realizado por Serge Parajanov, The Color of Poregranates, retratando os hábitos dos Arménios, intercalava imagens e versos do Poeta, o que lançou um novo interesse sobre a Vida e Obra daquele que é considerado um dos maiores artistas, de sempre, do Cáucaso.
Aqui fica um dos seus Poemas...

LOVE SONG

I sigh not, while thou art my soul ! Fair one, thou art to me

A golden cup, with water filled of immortality.

I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, sweet;

Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from the heat.

First hear my fault, and, if thou wilt, then slay this erring man;

Thou hast all power; to me thou art the Sultan and the Khan.

Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in sooth;

Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin smooth.

Thy teeth are pearls and diamonds, the gates of dulcet tones;

Thine eyes are gold-enamelled cups adorned with precious stones;

Thou art a rare and priceless gem, most wonderful to see;

A ruby rich of Mt. Bedakhsh, my love, thou art to me.

How can I bear this misery, unless my heart were stone ?

My tears are blood because of thee, my reason is o’erthrown.

A young vine in the garden fresh thou art to me, my fair,

Enshrined in greenness, and set round with roses everywhere.

I, like the love-lorn nightingale, would hover over thee.

A landscape of delight and love, my queen, thou art to me!

Lo, I am drunken with thy love ! I wake, but my heart sleeps.

The world is sated with the world; my heart its hunger keeps.

What shall I praise thee by, when naught is left on earth, save thee ?

Thou art a deer, a Pegasus sprung from the fiery sea !

Speak but one word, to say thou art Saïat Nova’s* love,

And then what matters aught to me, in earth or heaven above ?

Thy rays have filled the world; thou art a shield that fronts the sun.

Thou dost exhale the perfume sweet of clove and cinnamon,

Of violet, rose, and marjoram ; to me, with love grown pale,

Thou art a red flower of the field, a lily of the vale !

* An Armenian minstrel often weaves his name into the last stanza of his song,

in order that he may be known as its composer.

Tema sugerido por António C.