Jennifer Manoukian
. . . Բայց դուն, տեսի՜լք ընտանի, հիմա ա՜յնչափ հեռացած,Ըսէ՜, իրաւ է որ ա՜լ պիտի երբեք չբացուիս
Դիմացն զքեզ փնտռող իմ անսահման կարօտիս . . . ։
Դուն որ եղար, ո՜վ Պոլիս, լոյսն աչքերուս նորաբաց,
Ճի՞շդ է, ըսէ՜, որ ա՜լ մենք օտարնե՜ր ենք իրարու
Եւ իրաւունք չունի՜մ ես քու հողիդ մէջ թաղուելու. . . ։
[But you, familiar vision now so far away,
Tell me, is it true that you will never again open your arms wide for
My limitless longing that has been searching for you?
You, oh Constantinople, you that became the light of my newly opened eyes,
Tell me, is it true that we are now strangers to each other
And that I no longer have the right to be buried in your soil?]
In Armenian, writers can express longing, yearning, and nostalgia not only through the words they select, but through their careful use of punctuation. The ( ՜ ), called yergar in Armenian, is an evocative particularity of the language: in lengthening the vowel over which it is placed, it has the power to heighten the plaintive, wistful tone of a text. In the final stanzas of Vahan Tekeyan’s 1924 poem “Constantinople,” printed above, the yergar allows the anguished intonations and quiet disbelief of the poet to reverberate in our ears as we become participants in his requiem for a city that has spurned him.