Սիլվա Կապութիկեան- Խօսք իմ վորդուն Words to my son Silva Kaputikyan

With this spring season and blossoming of flowers,

And the flight of birds and the flow of the brook,

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With these songs and awakening,

My child’s speech awoke.

He uttered a precious word

From our sacred Armenian language,

As if it was a part of the Holy Sacrament

That touched the lips of my baby…

-Listen, my son, to my message to you,

From the heart of your loving mother,

From this day I entrust you

The most precious Armenian language.

It cut through the starlight

From the skies of centuries,

And cracked with turbulence

With the flight of an Armenian arrow.

And with the intelligence of Saint Mesrop,

It became a letter and a scroll,

It became a hope, it became a flag

It kept our journey intact…

With it, they mumbled

The Armenian immigrant, with the wounds in their heart

With it rumbled

The battle song of my people

With it my young mother

put me in craddle one day,

Now has reached to you

with its centuries old murmur

Open your lips and speak, my precious one,

Quick, chirp my dear one,

Let it be young again on your lips

Our gray haired Armenian language…

Keep it high and pure

Like the holy snow of Ararat

Keep it close to your heart

Like the ashes of your forefathers,

And against the enemy’s black stroke

Protect it with your chest

Like you would protect your mother

When they threaten her life with a sword.

So look, my son, wherever you may be,

Wherever you may go under this moon,

Even if you take your mother out of your head,

Your mother tongue don’t you forget.