By Shant Norashkharian
It’s the sower. He is standing tall and stout
In the sunset’s rays which are like flowing gold;
Before his feet are the fields of the fatherland
Spreading their unlimited nakedness.
His deep apron, full of wheat seeds like stars
Is wholly full. The thirsty ploughs of last year
Now are waiting for his wide fist, and that fist
Is opening upon the fields like a dawn.
Sower, sow in the name of your home’s table,
Let the movement of your arms be unbounded;
Tomorrow those wheat seeds you’ve thrown, like blessings,
Will be pouring on heads of your grandchildren.
Sower, sow in the name of the hungry poor
Never let your palm be half-full from your apron;
A poor today in the temple’s lantern put
The last oil for your harvest of tomorrow.
Sower, sow in the name of Lord’s sacrament,
Let luminous seeds overflow your fingers;
Tomorrow in each and every milky plant
A portion of Jesus’s body will ripen.
Sow and sow yet even beyond the border,
Sow like the stars and also sow like the waves.
Don’t worry if birds plunder all your seeds,
Tomorrow God will in their place sow you pearls.
Fill the furrows, let fertile ploughs overflow,
Let golden lights flow out of soil’s bosom.
As the day turns to evening your arm’s shadow
Stretches long to the starry horizons.