A cradle song

Over the Black Sea, the Black Sea,
White butterflies are gliding,
Black butterflies are gliding,
Over the Black Sea.

Oh, where are they flying to
In their flight in which death lasts?

This legend of unity of the scorch and lament
I heard since my childhood,
And the colours are tears dripping,
For autumn is my companion.

I feel, the breath most delicate,
And my lips are not biter at all
And sweet – the light of my eyes,
As before the cradle.

If I take the palm closer, they will come down soon,
And the row of colours will disappear,
And if I take it off, I am afraid they will be put out
Before they reach the opposite bank.

And the breath whispers: “Stay,
The lot was cast long time ago,
Eternally, for one day, you must swing the cradle,
This is your way out of the impasse.

And over the Red Sea
The yellow butterflies are gliding,
And over the Yellow Sea
The red butterflies are gliding.

Translated by Meruzhan Harutyunyan