ԳՐԻՇ ԴԱՎԹԵԱՆ
Արարատ ծածկող ամպերը
Լեգենդներ են մռլտում,
Եւ պատմում, որ Հայկ ու Բելը,
Նրանց կռիւը պատմում․․․
Խաժաչոք Հայկը նահապետը
Իր աղեղն է լարում
Ու եռաթեւ հուժկու նետը
Բելի սրտի մէջ խրում։
Այդտեղից է սկիզբ առնում
Հաեօց պատմութիւնը մեր,
Որ դարերի մութը ճեղքում
Հասնում միչեւ մեր օրեր։
Մի աղեղի ու մի նետի՝
Լեգենդական պատմութիւն,
Որ հիւսում է ազգուտակի
Գոյառման հերոսութիւն։
Մեկ ազգ ու երկիր հայրենի
Հաեօց պատմութիւն համայն․
Համօրէն ջերմը արեւի
Քաղցր ծոցուորի զամենան․․․
THE BOW AND ARROW OF HAYK
1
Beneath the clouds o’er Ararat,
Where legends hum and whispers chat,
The ancient tale of Hayk is told,
A hero, mighty, fierce, and bold.
With hazel eyes and warrior’s brow,
He faced the tyrant, made a vow,
To free his kin from foreign chain,
And cleanse his land of fear and stain.
His bow he bent with steady hand,
A sovereign of his sacred land;
A triple-feathered shaft took flight,
And cleft the tyrant’s heart in night.
There, struck upon that fated plain,
The might of Bel was rent in twain,
And from that shaft, that bow, that deed,
The root of Hay’s proud line would breed.
Through centuries of storm and flame,
The echoes bear the ancient name;
That arrow’s path, though long concealed,
Still sings within each sunlit field.
For from a single archer’s stand,
A nation’s soul took shape and stand,
And through the dark, defying fate,
Endures, resilient, strong, innate.
One bow, one arrow — myth, yet more,
A living pulse, a hero’s lore,
Of homeland, blood, and skies of gold,
A story sung, forever told.
2
The clouds that veil Ararat’s brow
Murmur of legends deep and old,
Of Hayk and Bel—how clash and vow
Wrought war in tales the ancients told.
With tawny eyes and towering frame,
The patriarch, fierce in his might,
Drew back his bow in heaven’s name
And launched his arrow into flight.
Three-feathered, vast, with thunder’s speed,
It cut through fate, unerring, wild—
And struck down Bel in battle’s need,
As justice by the brave and styled.
From that dread shaft, our tale took wing,
Our nation’s dawn, our sacred line—
Through centuries that moan and sing,
It breathes in every mount and sign.
A bow once bent with iron will,
An arrow steeped in wrath and flame—
Still tells the world our story, still
Resounds with Hayk, the hero’s name.
One people strong, one land of pride,
One tale the storm could not erase—
All woven where the sunbeams bide
And love burns sweet through time and place.
3
The clouds o’er Ararat drift slow,
And whisper legends soft and low,
Of Hayk, the patriarch, strong and wise,
And Bel, whose pride met swift demise.
The mountain listens, old and vast,
To echoes from a battle past,
When Hayk, with tawny, flashing eye,
Refused a tyrant’s yoke, and high
He raised his bow — a mighty yew,
And bent it as the wild winds blew,
Then lost a triple-feathered dart,
That struck and stilled proud Bel’s heart.
From that bold shaft, that fearless hand,
Arose the tale of Hayk’s own land,
A people fierce, yet kind and bright,
Who cleave to honor, truth, and right.
Through ages dark and tyrants grim,
The song of Hayk would never dim,
It blazed through centuries unknown,
And reached us, claiming blood and bone.
A single bow, a single flight,
Became a nation’s birth of might,
A legend wrought from battle’s flame,
That gave our history its name.
One land, one people, bold and free,
A tale of sun-warmed bravery,
And in the cradle of the skies,
The spirit of the archer lies.
His arrow sings within our chest,
His vow to never serve, nor rest —
But guard this ancient, sacred shore,
As Hayk the Brave did once of yore.
Grish Davtian
