To the River Euphrates

By William Saroyan

To the River Euphrates

Euphrates, which is mine, doth flow or not,

There where its mountains feed its rush and roar.

And through those hills and plains by most forgot,

And by these eyes not seen, for evermore

Euphrates swells and rolls majestically,

Or is now dry, and arid myth, a tale.

If this is so, the truth, so let it be.

In me Euphrates is; nor can it fail

To ride its bed and cool its burning earth

With drink, and mine as well. Of wing no flight

May end in graceless crash. No spirit’s mirth

May burn and die by heaven’s harshest light.

Euphrates flows, however it may be

That but in dreams these eyes its grace may see.

To Lake Van

Lake Van, O inland sea my father saw

With stinging eyes and steadfast blurring stare,

Our hearts unite in race’s filial prayer.

His blood to mine restores that fearful awe

He felt as he from homeland’s shore turned west,

Smothering harsh and violent farewell.

O lake and symbol of our grief, they spell

With growing strength denies all easy rest.

He from his spirit’s soil took lasting leave,

From heavens that his legend had sustained,

And though he left and died, there he remained

In his young ghost, above thy cool grieve,

Lament and weep in mists and pouring rains,

O Lake and pool of all your mortal pains.

I. EPISTLE

To the man this humble word:

Great soul, I your voice have heard.

If in fact I stand alone,

My clamor will the wrong atone.

Before your own my voice is small:

You sing, while my poor words must fall

Like so much sodden clay or mud

Into the rush of thought’s swift flood.

Yours is the flowing of the ancient soul.

While mine is but the lisping of the mind.

Yet if music the deaf cannot make whole,

The print shall give hearing to those not blind.

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.