William Saroyan

II. WHILE HE SINGS “MAYR ARAKSIE”


No art is lost and yours shall never be,

For when you sing, you sing at least for me.

And when at last my mortal day is done

Remember, friend, that I shall leave a son,

Tutored to seek the glory of his race

(Wherever he may go, to what strange place)

In your clear voice, which is the very pith

Of our old legend and our deathless myth.



And if the mother of his son shall be

A daughter of our ancient family,

I think she’ll teach him in his early years

That when you sing, though he be moved to tears,

He will yet know how once in strength we stood,

And stand forever in her motherhood.


San Francisco, California
January 14, 1933

može i prijevod! v.j.