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!
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
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
Translated by Samvel Mkrtchian