What troubled waters flowing down

the arid streets.

What a wonderfull ghost of death dashing

along each plane,

wincing at the frightened passengers,

knocking on the windows with skeletal fingers,

sitting on the wing,

flailing its legs. Pretending

it doesn’t hear the intensifying cry of the kids.

Oh Allen Ginsberg,

I mount your death, but more I mourn

the loss of my luggage that vanished away

in the labyrinth of the Kennedy Airport.

I still proceed with mourning

though I’m in Armenia now

and my shoes are strolling down the streets

of New Yourk City –

patting heels (oh what beautifull heels-brand-new!),

traveling the underground elevators.

Oh Allen Ginsberg, you passed away-oh Moloch!

Oh Moloch!

You didn’t live to see how I mourned your death,

how my eyes were raining tears,

I didn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe them

away,

since my handkerchiefs-brand-new, tightly folded,

disappeared along with my bags-they may be

cleaning an American’s nose by now.

Flutter oh back flags,

the last Beatnik is gone-at the very wrong time,

on a bright Spring day, when I was investigating

all passers-by in the heart of

Washington D.C.-confident that none of them knew

I was leaving the next day

for ever.

Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian